


The Heart of a Villain

by lettalady, Spadesjade



Series: The Heart of a Villain [1]
Category: Jaguar "British Villains" Commercial, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:26:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 108,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2645015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spadesjade/pseuds/Spadesjade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this reality, Thomas William Hiddleston sits atop the criminal empire he's developed under the guidance of his mentor, Ben Kingsley. One of several Lords of Crime based in the UK, Tom finds himself pulling an ex-lover back into his life after finding out her life is in danger.</p><p>[With Hayley Atwell as Rose, Hadley Fraser as Tom's head of household, and Nathan Fillion as August Tempest.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Parking Garage

The two goons watch on the security feed as the white car winds its way towards the designated meeting point. They watch and wait - the man doesn’t immediately get out of the car and that makes them twitchy. They’ve heard the stories. He’s dangerous. 

"What’s he doing?" Goon A mutters unhappily.

"I’m watching the same damn feed." Goon B replies.

They fall silent again when the man unfolds himself from the vehicle - slicked back hair, sleek suit - he pauses to button up his jacket and check his watch. Waiting to arrive exactly on time. 

The two goons give each other supporting nods and leave the security of the booth to step onto the waiting elevator with the package that the man had come to collect. They would either live to spread the rumors of the meeting, or they would suffer the consequences of his displeasure. If the latter, they probably wouldn’t be getting back onto the elevator - if all the stories they’d heard were true.

The chime of the elevator makes everyone tense. The man in the suit checks his watch again before jutting out his chin and summoning the goons forward from the shelter the elevator provided. He didn’t appear to be armed, but appearances can be deceiving. 

Neither goon really wants to look him in the eye but when he speaks a cool command they can’t seem to look anywhere else. Don’t show fear.

"Gentlemen." 

The two goons have been careful with the package all through transit, all through delivery. Truth be told neither wanted to really pay that close attention, neither wanted to know more than they needed to. Now, watching his cool critical expression, their curiosity was peaked and they too, discreetly, tried to examine what they had been delivering.

The woman was returning the man’s cool gaze, making goon A both inwardly nod in approval but also want to plead with her to look away, look down, look anything but defiant. He wanted to survive the day, not end up in a body bag in the trunk of this man’s luxury car.

There is no hint of a smile when the man speaks again, furthering the two goons’ apprehension, regardless of the word spoken. “Excellent.”

He was pleased with what he saw, he was pleased and yet nobody has moved a muscle. The man gives the woman a small nod and yet she still stands immobile. Goon B fights back the urge to reach out to nudge her forward. Who knows what reaction even that small a gesture might net.

The woman and man stand there staring at each other a moment longer, making the pair of goons start to sweat. Finally the woman starts towards the car, her heels clicking on the concrete floor and echoing around the parking deck. The man watches her progress, turning slightly as she passes him. He slowly follows her towards the car, predator stalking it’s prey. He doesn’t look back at the goons. They’ve been released. They’re free of his influence. 

The woman? She’s not so lucky. She’s all his now. 

Goon A jabs at the elevator button again. Goon B snorts at him, “Won’t get here faster.” 

"Wanna get off this damned floor. Stairs?" Goon A just wants to put distance between himself and the chilling man now shutting the car door behind the woman - preferably a distance filled with several layers of steel and concrete. 

Both goons pause and turn when the rumble of another vehicle’s engine echoes through the parking garage. The man by the car has paused as well - standing tall by the driver’s side door with his back to the pair of them. Then he turns to give them a cold stare. 

"Oh - shit." Goon A spins and jabs at the elevator button again.

The man in the suit considers his options - deal with the goons before the other car or just focus on the threat the other car poses. The goons looked just as surprised by the second vehicle as he was and look currently like they’re going to shit themselves. Clearly they had no hand in this double cross. 

He checks on the reaction of the car’s other occupant as he slides in behind the wheel. She’s tracking the progress of the other car. Standing opposite him over by the elevator she’d projected a cool defiance, now there was a hint of apprehension. If she was behind this there would be hell to pay later.

A flick of a switch and the car rumbles to life beneath them. The roar pulls her attention away from the other vehicle. Now, in her eyes, he saw fear. Fear of him? Of his reaction?

"Please." She was begging him to be lenient? She was right to be afraid. He can feel his anger coiling for a swift strike. Her next word, the urgency and terror behind it redirects his anger back towards the true threat - the other car. "Go!" 

"I take it they’re not friends of yours." 

He’d been prepared - preparation is key, after all. A sequence entered into his phone triggers the one-way spikes to rise from the floor of the parking deck. The other car doesn’t have time to stop before they roll over the spikes and flatten their front tires.

It usually pays to consider a double-cross. He allows himself a small smile as he guns the car up and out of the underground parking deck.

Now that the car is in motion she seems more at ease, back to the guarded woman he’d seem emerge from the elevator. He flicks his eyes from the road to the rear view mirror, road to rear view mirror, as he weaves through the late night traffic.


	2. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Her POV]

The minute she sees his car, her heart sinks. 

Not that it was surprising. Few things ever surprise her anymore. Still, after so long, being so careful, to be pushed right back to the starting point was disappointing. 

The goons are careful. Everyone was so careful about her. But it doesn’t let her think for a moment that something awful isn’t going to happen to her. There is no hope, no escape. It would always be like this, round after round, cycle after cycle, until the final turn of the screw and death ended the game. The despair is like a weight inside of her.

But no. She is not going to give in. She hasn’t survived this long by not fighting. And a true fighter leads with the heart. Her father always said that. If your heart is not in it, then you have already lost. 

So she swallows the heart that is in her throat, raises her chin, and lets the goons bring her to him. 

She gives nothing away. His eyes pierce and penetrate, scald and scathe, but she says nothing, doesn’t even move. All her tells are gone. She feels like a robot, moving automatically, systems shut down and hidden deep inside where he can’t see. It’s been two years, and he hasn’t changed one bit. His jaw still juts out in that particular way when he’s tense. Apparently his tells are not as well hidden as hers. 

They are all waiting for her to do something. He has already looked her up and down, found her whole and unmarked, and can see that she is not happy to see him. He seems indifferent. Just patiently waiting. He has always been so patient, and this is what has always made him so dangerous, and also so alluring. This is the secret to his control. He will stand there as long as it takes. He will not step forward and take her arm and drag her away like a primitive caveman. He will wait, and she try as she might, she knows she only has one choice. 

So she steps forward. Angling just a touch to the left so as not to touch him when she passes him. His eyes don’t leave her, but they don’t burn, either. He simply watches, taking note of every inch of her, down to the twitch of her fingers as they swing at her sides. He follows her to the car, his footsteps almost as loud as hers. He always loved expensive shoes.

She stands at the passenger side and waits, just out of the path of the swinging car door. She doesn’t look at him as he opens the door, merely sits down and pulls her legs in behind her. He doesn’t slam the door, either. This makes her more, not less, nervous. If he feels the need to grip his temper, it must be very bad.

She can’t understand, for the life of her, why he’s gone to so much trouble. When does madness like this cease to have a point? Surely he has enemies to deal with, other more pressing matters to fill his time—

The screech of tires pulls her eyes from her knees to the window, and she sees the other car coming down. The heart she swallowed before is back in her throat, beating furiously. At first she thought them stupid for coming after her, but now she sees that they had anticipated events better than she ever did. 

He opens the driver’s side door and looks at her, his eyes catching her hitch of panic as he slides in beside her. She watches the approaching black car, every muscle stiffening so she can’t look away, but can feel his eyes burn now, angry. He thinks this is her doing. He thinks she betrayed him, set a trap for him, and whatever punishment he planned before is foreplay compared to what he wants to do now. She hears the roar of the engine and it startles her, snaps her from her frozen state and she turns to him and hates herself for how she suddenly wants to plead.

“Please,” she says.

He looks even angrier. She thinks he might actually strike her, and this sudden shock pushes the next word from her throat.

“Go!”

He says something in that deep, smoky voice of his, but she can only hear the rush of blood in her ears, whoosh, whoosh, and see him pull out his phone and punch in a code.

The loud sound of tires being punctured rings through the garage. She feels as if the air is leaving her lungs with it. He shoves the car into gear and she gives a little jerk, her muscles desperate to release the tension. But just as quickly, she slides into apathy, pulling her shields up around her like a little girl would pull the blankets around her throat after a nightmare. Maybe it would have been better to die in the carpark, she thinks, fleetingly. 

A few minutes on the road assure her that they aren’t being followed. He drives as if they are, though. The earlier anger is finding its release in the sleek ride of the Jag. He changes lanes, passes everyone, and the growl underneath her causes her skin to vibrate.

Nothing like it does, though, when she finally hears him speak.

“You have nothing to say for yourself.” It is a question, she realizes.

She just turns her head away from him, eyes resolutely out the window.

To her utter astonishment, he chuckles. Then he draws a breath as the night flows around them, lights flicker, and the sites of London pass by. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he purrs. 

She hasn’t been here in two years. She realizes she missed it, just a bit. Then, what comes from his next almost makes her scream.

_“This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise…”_

He passes between two or three cars, weaving in and out with perfect percision.

_“This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea…”_

He turns to her, and she can feel his smile, and her shoulders rise as if this can defend her from the onslaught of emotions.

_“Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands,—This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.”_

Finally she can take no more, and looks at him, brow furrowed.

“It was ours, once. Yours and mine.”


	3. London at Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom's POV]

He spends the first few minutes weaving in and out of the late night traffic trying to ensure they’re not being followed. She’s distracting him, her white knuckle grip on the edge of the seat glaring in his peripheral vision. His driving is a little more forced, erratic, because of her presence. The roar of the engine as he shifts gears provides a much needed release but he still alters his driving, slowing down and changing lanes a little more smoothly than before.

When he finally speaks the words come out in a growled statement, “You have nothing to say for yourself.” 

Rather than respond to him she turns away - the action stirring something predatory deep within him. Alright. Let the games begin. He uses the night skyline to his advantage.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” It nets no reaction. He can see her stoic expression in the reflection from the passenger’s side window. Fine. The next thing he says he knows will goad her into speaking to him. 

_“This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise…”_

He pauses to slide the Jag through a narrow gap left by two vehicles that would have otherwise delayed their progress through the night. When he glances at her she hasn’t turned from the window so he carries on. 

_“This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea…”_

The next time he turns his attention from the road she’s tensed her muscles as though that will block out his words. It only pushes him to continue with a little more force. She’d left him once, escaped his influence after - it didn’t matter why. She has no choice at the moment but hear him.

_“Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands,—This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.”_

He’d wanted anger in her reaction, chosen the lines he knew would upset her. When she spins on him she’s merely frowning. This isn’t the same woman who he’d developed his empire with. Something in their few years apart had changed her. 

“It was ours, once. Yours and mine.”

He can feel his anger over her abandonment mixing with the tempest of emotions already amassing within him. It surprised him, how quickly it resurfaced. He battled it back down, just as he had done nearly two years ago. He disliked being reminded of his weaknesses, his failings.

Why had he searched her out after so long? He’d heard rumors that his enemies had plans, that she was in danger. Even apart his ties to her put her in danger. He’d had no choice but to find her, to bring her back. Even having lost her, he couldn’t have her suffer because of him.

He’d lost himself internally - let the memories distract him from the driving. The next glance he takes in the rear view mirror makes him curse himself for allowing it to happen. Two sets of headlights are weaving quickly towards their Jag. 

He shouldn’t have slowed. He shouldn’t have let his emotions govern his actions - as they always had concerning her, despite his best efforts to keep her at arm’s length. His muttered curse is hidden by the roar of the engine as he adjusts his speed and merges across three lanes of traffic to find another route to take.


	4. The Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Her POV]

She jerks and sways with the movement of the car and realizes he's not in as much control as she remembers. He's been caught off guard. Did she do that? The thought twists something deep within her and she feels a rush of power. Not a strong one, but enough to unclench her jaw.

" _Your_ England," she bites out. "It was never ours."

He jerks his head around to look at her, that jaw making that movement that clearly shows he's angry, but just as quickly he readjusts it as he veers to change course

Memories she buried start to wink into her brain. Meeting him just after Uni, how he was so imposing and important and handsome. Intimidating. Sexy. She was just a struggling business major trying to gain a foothold somewhere but he knew everything. She knew from the beginning how condescending and patronizing he could be but she let it slide, thinking of the experience she could gain, what she could learn from him.

Until the ugly truth. By then it was much too late. She was in love and attached, and worse, he had seemed to stake a claim in her, scaring all the others away. His aura had become hers, his presence like an electrified fence that surrounded her.

She remembered that feeling of looking around and wondering what the hell had happened. He wasn't much older than her, maybe three years, and still it seemed as if he were omnipotent, learning so fast to control everything as if he had been born into his new position. It was like stepping into a glass elevator and having it thrust so high and so fast that she was dizzy from the sudden height.

He was a criminal. With a growing empire. And somehow she'd gotten in on the bottom floor and there was no way in hell she could just walk away. At the time, the notion was the farthest thing from her mind. She thought he hung the moon.

But she never, ever thought she was his equal. Not once.

There are too many of them. The single pair of headlights is joined by another. Then, from the left, on her side, a car comes screaming at them, the smell of burning rubber oozing through the ventilation and into her nostrils. They are surrounded now. Somehow he manages to swerve clear before the car can sideswipe them on her side, but she cannot control the small whimper that shakes loose from her lips.

If he hears her, he says nothing.

Adrenaline starts to make her tremble. She looks at him through the fringe that lays over her eyes, wondering if he expected this. He always expects everything, it is his advantage, what makes him so good in his position. But he'd shown up alone to collect her. He hadn't come to Nebraska to confront her, thankfully, which is what she was afraid he would have done (although she could imagine the look on his face when he found out that's where she was -- _what the hell is in Nebraska, anyway?_ ). No, instead he'd brought _her_ to _him_ , yet still he had taken that last, little personal step. The carpark. The Jaguar. He was alone. If there were others watching his back, like there should be, they would have made an appearance by now.

"You need to make the call," she says, her voice shaking. She expects some reaction from him, to her fear if nothing else. He doesn't even look at her.

That jaw is clenching repeatedly, that muscle in the smooth jawline bouncing in and out. His fingers of one hand are losing circulation as they grip the wheel even as he expertly jockeys his way through the cars of innocent bystanders unfortunate enough to be on this road at this time of night. The other hand on the gear shaft twitches slightly. The cameras in the half-dozen intersections they've barreled through illegally have taken their picture as many times by now, but there will be no action taken later. For the first time, she realizes this is not to their advantage.

Finally, she cracks. "Tom!" she shouts, the sound bouncing around the small enclosure, startling both him and her. He drags his eyes from the road and meets hers, livid.

"Make the call!"

His jaw goes rigid and she can almost hear his teeth cracking. But his hand leaves the gear shaft, slides over to the phone lying on the dash between them, and presses another code.

"Yes, sir?" comes a crystal clear voice, as if the operator were sitting right beside them.

"Protocol 999. Track location." His voice gives nothing away. As calm as a sea without wind.

"Yes sir, we see you. Deploying. ETA three minutes."

Subconsciously, she starts counting in her head. One hundred and eighty and she'll hear it. The cavalry.  He just has to stay ahead that much longer. It sounds like an eternity.

Tom, however, has finally unclenched. His driving has become smoother. Now he has a goal, she realizes. Tom with a goal is much more dangerous than Tom without one. He is going north, closing the distance. He feels her staring at him and shoots her a glance, and that smirk -- that fucking _sneer_ \-- starts to slide across his lips.

"I had it under control, darling. Has the time softened your nerve?" he asks, his voice dripping with superiority.

The anger she felt start to dig its talons in her suddenly drops away. It never does any good to play against him at his level. Besides, her priorities have shifted so much in the two years, it's like they don't even speak the same language anymore.

Before she can make some nonchalant reply, his tone suddenly becomes mild. "You wouldn't happen to know who those people were, would you?"

"I thought you would know better than me," and she shrugs, dismissive.

He looks at her again, his eyes cool as they scan her face. "You seemed anxious enough to get away before. So don't play coy." But the three minutes are up and their bickering is cut short as she can hear the pounding of air growing louder from the distance. The helicopter has arrived.


	5. Help From Above

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

She knows something about those in pursuit. He can feel it. Tom wants to push the subject further but circumstance requires he maintain his focus on the road. He downshifts, the Jag letting out a prolonged growl of protest - it doesn’t help him lose those in pursuit but it vocalizes his frustration.

Still sulking over the need to call for backup, he ignores the phone when it flashes and briefly illuminates the dimly lit interior. Aid from above wants to chat – and he isn’t in the mood.

They don’t give up. When the phone falls silent he notices a streetlamp slightly up the street pop, glass shattering down onto the sidewalk and into the street. It just as easily could have been a shot fired into the pristine white exterior of his Jag. He clenches his jaw and jabs his finger at his phone to accept the call when the second alert comes through. He manages to utter a clipped single word. “Yes.”

“Interference at next exchange. Four cars in pursuit. And you’re destroying that engine.” Mark Strong, one of the other Lords of Crime, informs him. Another few pops precede screeching tires and crunching metal, “Three cars in pursuit.”

Mark has apparently decided to be on site for any mayhem that needed to be caused – hell it is a surprise he shot out the streetlamp rather than shooting the Jag just to see how Tom would react. The last person he wants to interact with tonight is Mark. “It’s my _personal fucking car_ , Mark.” Tom speeds through the next intersection without checking for the promised support. He doesn’t need to look, the sound of the motorcycles comes through clearly enough.

“So learn to drive it. Two in pursuit.” Mark’s words coincide with the screech of tires and the sound of grinding metal.

Tom bites back his retort and flicks his eyes away from the road to glance at his passenger, then to each of the mirrors in turn. She hasn’t spoken since the helicopter arrived to monitor their safe passage. Evidently Mark is occupied enough with the task at hand that he hasn’t noticed Tom isn’t alone in the car. Tom has already mentally mapped the route to take, his destination the sprawling headquarters. The motorcyclists just need to do their job.

“Reroute. Our drivers can take out one but not both of the vehicles.”

Tom ignores Mark’s command. They’re equals, Tom doesn’t answer to anyone but himself. “No. The route is sound. Tell them to earn their keep.”

“Personal errand. Personal car. Personal time. We don’t have to be out here saving your ass. Reroute, Hiddleston.”

Things are never easy for him when she’s around. “Shoot out their fucking tires – or did you waste your ammo on the lamp back there.” Mark offers no response. Tom looks to his mirrors again to see the motorcyclists box in one of the vehicles and the lead motorcycle sacrifice his bike to take out the car. Unfortunately the action causes a pileup that takes out all four motorcycles. He mutters another curse, “Morons.” That leaves the lone car following them free to barrel down on his vehicle.

“I told you they couldn’t –” Tom ends the call. That’s enough of Mark’s snide tone. If he isn’t going to help, why bother keeping the line open? His next action is a calculated risk that is necessary, even if it saddens him to have to scratch the paintjob on the car. The other car won’t have time to adjust and it will remove their last tail. He didn’t want to expose her to any more violence than absolutely necessary, he prided himself on keeping that part of the job away from her in the past. Sometimes things can’t be avoided.

He flicks the switch to make his window roll down, no need to make more of a muss than absolutely necessary. It’s all in the timing now. He uses his knee to steady the wheel while he reaches into the side compartment in the door to find the gun he’d stashed there earlier. He just needs the room for the maneuver – to spin the car and place a few well timed shots into the other vehicle.

He sighs inwardly, she’s not going to like this. He sets the gun in his lap where he can easily slide his hand from the gear shaft to retrieve it, replacing his hand on the wheel. “Now, brace yourself.”

She inhales sharply, “What? Tom?”

His name hasn’t quite finished leaving her lips when he spins the wheel, sending the car sliding to the side. It isn’t as fluid a turn as he intended but it works. He scoops the gun from his lap to pop off a sequence of shots at the lone vehicle now swerving in the street. The silencer saves them from being rendered deaf from the shots. Headlight. Headlight. Grill. Bumper. He growls at his aim. These seconds are critical. He hits the driver’s side tire and it flattens, then he fires off a shot directly through the windshield at the driver himself. The black car falls into an uncontrolled skid, sending up a shower of sparks where the tire rim is sliding along pavement.

It has all happened in a few mere seconds. Now the problem is righting the spin he has sent the Jag into – too sharp a jerk to the wheel and they’ll be suffering whiplash for days. He lets the spin continue, tracking via the surrounding buildings how long he’s let it go on. He considers stopping it at a mere 180 but the careening black car makes him decide against that. A full 360 it is then. There wasn’t quite as much room in the street as he thought and the passenger’s side of the car ends up mounting the curb. His alignment will be shot. It at least stalls the Jag from spinning off the street and into the buildings.

Tom glances over to make sure she’s uninjured. No shots had been fired in return but that didn’t mean that the impact of the two vehicles hadn’t thrown her into the Jag’s frame. She appears unscathed. His concern met with a momentarily flash of the way she used to look at him. The look disappears as quickly as it surfaced, leaving him wondering if he’d seen it at all. His hands are both occupied now – one on the wheel, one holding the gun. Shifting gears while holding something isn’t the easiest thing in the world. And he’s lost track of his phone, though he can see the flash of yet another incoming call. Screw Mark, he’s not the one down here driving.

Tom deposits the gun back into its holding space, though perhaps the action comes a bit too soon. The Jag lurches as the black car collides into the rear of his Jag. Now both cars are sliding down the road in a nearly synchronized dance. He shifts gears, but not fast enough to prevent the black car from scraping up the side of his car, from rear bumper forward. The paint transfer will extend at least halfway up the side of his beautiful white Jag.

The front lawn is illuminated by floodlights, making it nearly daylight within their sphere of influence. Tom lets his finger trail over the new dent, scratches, and paint transfer on the driver’s side and rear of the car. He’s livid but doing his best not to show it. He’ll pay to get the Jag repaired but he’ll still know the damage happened. It’ll taunt him, a phantom image in the previously pristine surface. By the time he’s circled the vehicle, taking care not to appear rushed, she’s opened the door already. She used to wait for him to open it for her.

The corner of his eye twitches. He doesn’t have time to even begin to comment – Mark’s helicopter beats the pair of them with a downdraft as it lands on the hover-pad nearby. Tom motions for her to walk towards the front doors while moving to block the gusts from assaulting her full force and block her from view.

They’re nearly inside, nearly beyond view when the rotors of the helicopter fall silent and Mark’s shout can be heard: “Ah so this was the personal errand that delayed the meeting. Welcome back, dear Rosaline.”


	6. The Estate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rosaline]

"Now, brace yourself."

She sees him pull the gun from the door compartment. She is surprised he didn't take it out sooner, but when he puts it in his lap, this makes her frown.

"What? Tom?"

Too late. He has turned the wheel and they are spinning. Spinning so hard her stomach rolls and a fresh wave of adrenaline rockets up her spine. She grips on whatever she can -- brace herself, indeed!

The window is down, and the hand that was on the gear shift grasps the gun. He reaches across his chest anduses the window ledge to steady the gun. She notices the silencer moments before he fires off several shots at the vehicle coming right at them. She wants to scream, wants to let out some kind of noise to release the terror that has gripped her but it sits like a stone in her gut and she can hardly even breathe.

Finally he hits the driver. He doesn't pull out of the turn, instead lets it continue and she realizes they are going to spin all the way around. Her side hits the curb hard in the process and she bites her tongue with the jerking motion, yanking a strangled noise from the back of her throat.

This gets his attention, apparently, because his eyes turn to her again, and she cannot believe that he just allowed that kind of damage to be done to his beloved car. But that is Tom, he will do what is necessary for the job. Tom with a goal is much more dangerous than Tom without one. And she cannot help the admiration that fills her eyes, before she remember she is not twenty-two and Tom is not her god...not anymore.

The force of the spin sent Tom's phone onto the floorboards under her feet. She doesn't see this until the flash of an incoming call starts to wink against her shoe, also successfully dragging her eyes away from Tom. Mark wants to antagonize Tom some more. Typical. Boys will be boys and all that.

The mounting of the curb has stopped their spin. Just as she catches her breath the Jag lurches forward from the impact of the black car – even with a dead driver it is still a dangerous hunk of metal flying through the street. They are now in a sideways slide, and Tom drops the gun back into his lap. She sees him wince in response to the sound of metal grinding against metal.

So much for the pristine paint job.

Things return to normal -- which is cold silence for the most part -- when they finally clear the rest of the damage. The helicopter drifts down briefly, and she catches a brief glimpse of Mark nearly hanging out the window, looking in, and for some reason Tom, who has turned again onto a much wider, more heavily trafficked street, ducks behind a large red bus, as if to shoo it away. The helicopter gets the hint and vanishes ahead of them.

He doesn't press her for more information about their pursuers. Yet. She knows better than to relax, but she also isn't particularly worried. Tom is probably more upset over the car than he is anything else, and with Mark goading him his brain is either preoccupied sulking or stewing. Probably both. Tom was always excellent at multi-tasking.

Their destination comes into view, and she bites back a sarcastic smirk. The estate is lit up like a sports stadium. Bright floodlights surround the back drive as he pulls in, bringing the Jag to a stop not twenty feet from a secluded back entrance. When he turns off the engine, she notices that motion he makes with his jaw, and thinks for a moment that he is going to tear into her -- this is the first quiet moment they've had since their "reunion," and she has no illusions about his potential mental state.

But he says nothing. Just gets out of the car. When he shuts the door behind him she allows herself to let out her breath, and just deflate into the seat. The tension she's been carrying has nearly reached an overwhelming point, and she knows being awake for almost twenty-four hours has only made it harder to bear. She thinks she should win an Academy Award for her performance this evening, when in reality, she wants...

Well, it doesn't really matter what she wants.

She turns toward her door and pops the handle. It swings open and as she is getting out she sees that he has made his way over to her side of the car. He was going to get her door. He got her door before, in the carpark, just as he used to. Can he possibly be so delusional to think it's going to be business as normal? She only ever allowed him to get her door because she knew he wanted to, because it pleased him to do that for her. It showed his dominance, but it also showed that she was willing to submit.

He has _that look_ on his face as she emerges. He's going to say something -- she can feel it crackling in the air like static. But then comes the helicopter, which makes sense because why else would they have the place lit up so brightly if not to make a destination clear from the air?

Tom steps out, motioning for her to walk around him, between him and the car. As she obeys, she feels the gusts of the downdrafts sweep around them, mostly hitting him but sweeping around him to brush her with their heavy tendrils. Tom walks in pace with her, seeming to use his body as a buffer. When they clear the car he steps behind her, still acting as a shield. He's so widely shouldered that it would be hard for someone to see her -- is he trying to hide her?

If he is, he's going to be disappointed. Mark already saw her.

When the roar of the helicopter engines finally stop and she can hear herself think again, Mark's voice echoes around them.

“Ah so _this_ was the personal errand that delayed the meeting. Welcome back, dear Rosaline.” 

She sees Tom stiffen, but she was never in the same position as he was when it came to his two partners. She could smile and be gracious and even mildly flirtatious if the situation called for it -- she never had to worry about appearing as an equal. So she turns on her heel, and Tom looks surprised for a moment before he steps aside to let her greet the man.

"Hello, Mark." She never called him Mr. Stone. This always pleased Tom. Never showing deference.

"It's been a long time," Mark says, smiling at her in his wolfish way. She knows he does it just to piss Tom off so she makes sure her voice stays cool.

"Has it?"

"Two years. Give or take some weeks." He eyes her up and down. She can't look like much in her pencil skirt and blouse, especially after the day she's had. "Wherever have you been hiding? For a while I thought you'd wised up and moved on from this wet-eared pup."

She can't even look at Tom at this moment. She knows he's stewing, and if he thinks for a moment she's waiting for him to make a show of dominance, she's afraid he will do something he might regret. It never occurred to her before how her leaving might affect his standing. She never considered herself important enough.

"Why Mark, have you forgotten about how the future belongs to the young?" she asks with an amused smile. "But you know how it is. Business before pleasure, sacrifices must be made and all that."

Having caused no rise in his intended target, Mark backs down. "Well," he says dismissively, "I'm glad he's no longer hiding you. Please, let's go inside."

She tilts her head toward the door, indicating Mark should get it for her. Never one to insult a woman, Mark does so, and inadvertently ends up holding it for Tom as well. She hasn't lost her touch, in spite of the years of disuse.

Tom gets ahead of her by a few feet and leads them up the wide back stairs into a small series of hallways and into the main room, where Ben Kingsley stands, quietly drinking a brandy and watching everything on his television monitors. He has some of the screens projected onto the wall. He reaches down and flicks something on the keyboard when they enter the room, and the walls screens blink out, returning the room to normal lighting.

"Rosaline," Ben greets her warmly, stepping toward her and kissing her cheek. She places her hand on his upper arm and squeezes it affectionately. "I was wondering how much longer you'd be away. I hope you weren't too badly shaken by that ugliness before."

"Tom handled it," she said flippantly. One more dig at Mark cannot hurt. Especially after how he so blatantly was staring at her ass.

"Is there anything we can get you?" Ben offers, always a gracious host. "Refreshment? Have you dined yet? Need a good stiff drink?"

She chuckles. "No, I'm afraid I'm much too exhausted to handle any hard liquor tonight." Exhausted doesn't begin to cover it. If they ask her to sit down she might fall asleep and that will be the end of it. "Did I delay one of your meetings? I'm so sorry to have bothered you--"

Ben waves his hand. "Don't think another moment of it. Although if you're exhausted please allow us to make you comfortable, if you're going to be stuck here waiting for us as we get to our delayed business --"

The mild look of discomfort on her face doesn't have time to solidify before Tom says, right at her shoulder, his large hand settling into its familiar place at the small of her back:

"No, that won't be necessary. I'm going to take her home."


	7. Connected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

Taking her to the estate had been foolish, but at the time it had been the only thing that made sense to him. If things had gone according to plan, he could have deposited her somewhere inside – perhaps his office – and gone to the meeting with Kinsley and Mark. The meeting that he was now more than a little late for. Kinsley had probably watched the mad dash through the streets of London with a critical eye. He can imagine what Ben will have to say regarding the scene: “We do not cause such spectacles on our streets, Tom.”

It had been unavoidable.

Tom stares at his long shadow that is cast across the lawn by the helipad floodlights. Mark forestalled them entering the building by shouting out his greeting. He balls his hands up into fists and forces his fingers to straighten again as Rosaline stands her ground. She is playing her part wonderfully – sidestepping Mark’s attempts at prying into the reason for her absence. All he has to do is stand there and let them talk. He keeps his expression neutral and puts his hands in his pockets.

Mark was trying to use the events of the night to his advantage. To his credit, Mark had never quite taken Tom’s word for truth regarding Rosaline’s whereabouts.

He lets details slip through his mind while Mark tries to net a rise out of him. Eyeing her like she’s a piece of candy won’t do the trick, not tonight.

Their ‘discussions’ regarding Rosaline had become repetitive over the many months. Tom’s response of: _She’s my concern, not yours –_ merely netted more curiosity, more questions – and was usually followed by Mark saying – _She knows too much, Tom._ Tom had resorted to stonewalling him when the subject was raised. It was mostly ineffective. For the most part they could be civil with each other but the subject was a sore spot between them. Something they were doomed to disagree over. For two years Mark had pressed the issue. Two long years.

He is snapped from his thoughts by Mark’s words. Wet-eared pup? Rosaline’s quick, calm reply is the only thing that keeps him from growling out a retort of his own – one far less friendly in nature. He glances over at the Jag, determined to appear disinterested since Mark is trying his damnedest to rile him up. From this angle the car appears unmarred by the events of the night.

Rosaline has manipulated Mark into getting the door. He only just resists the urge to flash a great tooth-filled smile at Mark when he follows closely on Rosaline’s heels, entering the house before Mark can enter the building himself.

From the back entrance, the path they need to take to get to the meeting room is a complicated one. A quick internal debate over priorities results in Tom leading the way. The action leaves Mark to follow behind Rosaline, the thought of which makes Tom uneasy. The pencil skirt she was wearing fit her form just a bit too snugly, but there was no way Tom was going to let Mark lead the way through the maze of hallways. He’ll pop in to acknowledge Ben, hopefully Mark will stay the fuck put in the meeting room, and then he’ll escort Rose on to his office.

Then he’ll be able to concentrate.

Of course Ben is watching footage of the chase when they walk into the room. Tom winces at the image of the black car plowing into his Jag before Ben turns the wall white again with a mere keystroke. Ben’s gaze sweeps across him momentarily before settling on Rosaline. By settling his focus on her he’s showing his priority at the moment – Tom and Mark are sidelined in favor of decorum, manners.

Tom’s gaze is pulled to Rosaline’s form again to examine how she’s holding herself while she’s talking to Ben. She is putting on a good show but he can see the tension in the way her shoulders are set. Ben hadn’t questioned him regarding Rosaline but it had obviously been on his mind.  "I was wondering how much longer you’d be away. I hope you weren’t too badly shaken by that ugliness before." Ben’s gaze slides over Rosaline’s shoulder to Tom, the flash of disapproval clear.

As soon as there is an opening he’ll take her to his office, maybe request that someone bring her something to eat? To drink? The way she’s been acting towards him, she might reject the peace offering, no matter how practical.

“Tom handled it.” At Rosaline’s reply he allows himself a small smile, thankful that she’s helping to remind Ben and Mark that he can handle himself.

Ben’s eyes drift over Rosaline’s shoulder to fix on Tom and nods. It’s a small action but Kinsley’s approval has always been something that Tom values – the man had been grooming him since he was a teen. “Is there anything we can get you? Refreshment? Have you dined yet? Need a good stiff drink?” Ben had been on the same wavelength – get Rosaline settled somewhere so they could get back to business. Tom tilts his head slightly to note Mark still openly eyeing Rosaline. He amended his previous thoughts – he wanted to get Rosaline somewhere far, far away from Mark’s roving eyes.

She may no longer be his, but he certainly wasn’t going to stand idly by while Mark ogled her.

Ben was looking to him again – probably reading Tom’s thoughts with ease. Tom had mastered blocking out most people, usually managing with Rosaline, but nearly always failing when it came to his mentor. All he needed was the slight nod of approval to say: _ignore the words I say, do as you feel you must._ He’s offering an opening for Tom to take advantage of.

Tom steps forward to touch Rosaline gently on her back, “I’m taking her home.”

He knows Mark is bristling – yet another delay to the meeting – but he doesn’t care. Before Mark can start to complain Ben dismisses Tom, “Use the helicopter – can’t have that car of yours on the road in that condition.”

Tom keeps his hand in contact with Rosaline’s back for as long as she will allow it. Just as he expects, she steps away from him once they’re out of the room. He leads the way back through the hallways of the estate, putting his hands in his pockets to keep them stilled.

Walking at a slower pace to allow her to keep up in her heels gives him far too much time to think. It seems the longer he is in her presence the more he wants to reminisce. Dwelling on those memories tempts him to try to unsettle grip of the ruthless man he has become – perhaps allow the kinder man to come to the surface for a few hours.

The gentler man could not reign free within a Lord of Crime. That man needed to be a persona that could be adopted if the situation required it. At least with his back to her she cannot witness the power struggle between the crook and the gentleman going on inside him. He’ll have himself sorted by the time they make it outside. He doesn’t trust himself enough at the moment to bother to force a conversation. Not yet. That manipulation can come once the criminal had gained control again. Rose had made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want to comment – on anything. Without realizing it he has taken his hands out of his pockets to start adjusting his jacket as they walk through the estate.

She’d been quick to defend him against Mark’s barbs but, no – nothing good came of reading into her actions. When it was safe for her to leave again, when the threat was dealt with, he’d send her away once more. Away from him. That was the only way he’d thought he could keep her safe. He scowls, correcting his internal monologue and shoving his hands back in his pockets – safe wasn’t it – uncorrupted. She didn’t belong in this world. It had taken him far too long to recognize that.

He’d outsourced the search for her when they came up empty locally. They’d found her in the United States – Nebraska of all places. Such a radically different environment compared to the near-constant hum that was London. His London.

She’d gone to such lengths to get as far away from him as she could. That thought helps to shove the gentle man back into the shadows and let the cold calculating man reclaim his seat. This was the man he had become.

This is the man the job requires.

They’re met at the door by a staff member holding his phone and a few other odd personal belongings that had been retrieved from the Jag. Ben hadn’t wasted any time setting things in motion. Tom had been too wrapped up in the moment to think to retrieve his phone before getting out of the Jag. He’ll hear about that later.

Rose does let him help her into the helicopter. He maintains contact at both her hand and her elbow to steady her ascent into the cabin. They’d used the helicopter before, just a few times, in the five years they’d been together before she’d left. He’d flown them somewhere for an anniversary dinner one year – some sort of celebration anyway. Seatbelts and headsets secured, they take off, heading towards home.

While he can closely watch her reaction he flicks the switch on the headset he is wearing to try to talk to her. “Rose…. Rosaline – this is important. I need to know if you know _anything_ about those men that chased us from the parking garage.” He needs every detail she can muster.

She doesn’t immediately move to reply. The headsets were in perfect working order. He knows she heard him. He’s just about to flick the switch to repeat himself when she responds. “I told you before, Tom, I don’t know who they are. They watched me back in Nebraska, too.” She quirks her head at him, “I thought, at first, that you’d sent them to bring me back. I considered running again. But all they did was watch me.”

“Watch you?” _What had they been waiting for_

She glares at him, snapping out a short reply. “Long enough.”

He lets his eyes fall away from her face while he mulls that little bit of news, rolling the spiraled headset cord between his fingers. He mutters to himself without pressing the switch to talk to her. “Why watch you?” He doesn’t hear it, but he sees her snap her fingers and motion to her own headset. She wanted to know what he muttered. He sighs, flicks the switch, and repeats himself. “Why watch you?”

She’ll likely resettle herself by the time they make it to the house, but for the moment he can see past the steely mask she has been holding in place. ”You. They were waiting for you.” 

He scowls, “I didn’t -” she’s still talking so he stops the thought to listen to what she is saying. Details would be what would solve this puzzle.

“… two years of a normal life surrounded by normal people and then you send your people to yank me back. I’m near you for all of ten minutes and people start dying. How could it _not_ be something connected to you?”

This is the exact argument they’d had before the split. This was his world, not hers.

“What did you do Tom? What did you do to piss them off?” She holds up her hand, “Nevermind. I don’t want to know.” She sighs, the burst of emotion using nearly all of what little energy she has in reserve, “Just get it sorted.”


	8. Wardrobe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rosaline]

The house is the same as she remembers it. It is funny, how some things just refuse to change. She can’t imagine why the house would change, Tom hardly lived in it. It is just a placeholder. He didn’t let himself get comfortable, didn’t settle. He worked and he moved and he planned, but he didn’t live. There was only one single place, and she is sure if she went to it, she will see life there, that he allows himself to relax. It is in his study. Where he keeps the volumes and volumes of Shakespeare, and a different worn copy would lie open on his desk on any given day. He seems to be obsessed with memorizing all of it, every line, verse, character, nuance, anything and everything. It is his single hobby. Sometimes, she was sure if the house was burning and he had to pick between his beloved Shakespeare and her, she would be left behind.

She turns to him, waiting. She is so careful to keep her expression neutral, show nothing. It is like when she stepped off the elevator and saw him standing there, waiting for her. Bury her tells. She hadn’t done so well in the helicopter, but she was exasperated and quite frankly, she knows it would make things go smoother if she just lets Tom do what he did best. Even if she has no idea what that means for her future after it is sorted.

For a moment, they stare at each other, and she has no idea what he is thinking. Around them the room is made of dark, warm wood, emitting a cozy, welcoming feeling. He planned it that way. He wanted people to relax when they entered his private home. People who were relaxed let down their guard.

"You remember where your room is," he says, his voice as dispassionate as her face.

"I don’t have a room here," she returns, matching his tone.

His eyes linger on hers a moment longer, and the corner of his mouth twitches. She wins this round, but it fails to give her any feeling of triumph. Then he turns and heads into the heart of the house, up the stairs. He makes no indication for her to follow, but she does, having nothing else to do.

She watches him walk. He has such a confident walk. It was one of the first things she ever noticed. Long legs, long strides, and his arms swing lightly, not lazily, but with purpose. He reaches up, and she knows he is buttoning his jacket. It is a nervous habit, buttoning and unbuttoning it. Should she take another tick for a victory? Obviously her presence unsettles him.

"Sir?" comes a Scottish accent, and she turns to see a familiar face covered with a thick, dark beard. But the eyes give him away immediately.

"Yes, Hadley?" Tom replies, his tones still dulcet and smooth. Untroubled. He stops walking, turning to the man who keeps his house in order. But Hadley is distracted by her.

"Miss," Hadley says, a smile twitching nervous at his lips but his eyes darting anxiously toward Tom, gauging his reaction. She smiles, wide and genuine, to settle him. "Wel…welcome back."

Obviously the house staff doesn’t know. Tom never told anyone anything they didn’t absolutely need to know. Especially her.

"Thank you, Hadley," she pushes all the warmth she can into her address. Whether it’s because she means it or she just wants to piss Tom off, she’s not sure. Probably both. "You’ve grown a beard. I like it."

He reaches up a hand and smoothes the coarse hair, a bit embarrassed. “Yes, miss.” Always “miss,” never “ma’am,” but it was a small victory as she wanted Hadley to call her Rosaline. Tom always said it was never wise to be familiar with the help. It blurred boundaries. In spite of her insistence, and because Tom was the boss, not her, Hadley did not indulge in the privilege, but he never used her last name, either.

"It is a pleasure to see you again, miss," Hadley continues, still hyper-aware of Tom’s reaction. Tom’s back is to her so she can’t see his face, but she can see the line of his jaw and she’s almost sure he’s glaring. "I hope everything is prepared to your liking."

This piques her curiosity, but she doesn’t dare ask. Tom cuts him off.

"What is it, Hadley."

"Ah, yes, sir, I merely wished to inquire if you were going back out, since the helicopter is still present, sir."

"Yes, Hadley. I must return to the meeting. Secure the grounds in my absense." Without a dismissal, Tom continues his stride up the main stairs. With another smile and nod at Hadley, she follows. Hadley returns her smile. She realizes that she missed him.

Tom reaches the landing, turns, goes to a familiar door and opens it, turns to her and gestures. His expression is carefully laid in place, his cold, smooth mask. She hesitates for only a moment, realizing she is in a much more precarious situation than first realized. He hasn’t locked her up in a cell, hasn’t tied her to a chair and tortured her. No, this is much more insidious. Tom always believed in making those around him vulnerable. Old memories are always the best place to start.

Drawing a breath, she enters.

She only notices that the bedclothes have changed — a new duvet and matching pillow shams pile high at the headboard. The rest of the room seems the same. But she sincerely wouldn’t know the details. She had only slept here for the last four months or so before she left, and she never intended for it to be permanent.

She turns, and realizes that Tom has shut the door behind them, and settled himself against a dresser, leaning back, ankles and arms both casually crossed. He is watching her, and very carefully. Her first urge is to play him at his own game and stare back, but it would be like staring at a cat. Or in his case, a tiger. And there is no urgency now. He would have waited her out in the carpark and he will wait her out now. Maybe she is in a cell, just a nicely decorated one. She feels more like a bug pinned down under glass. Exactly how she felt before she decided to leave five years ago.

It is getting harder and harder to play the unreceptive captive. Maybe it’s the excitement of the day, the pressure, the strain, and it is getting to her. She is exhausted. She wants very much to lie down on those fresh sheets and reset herself, wake refreshed and able to think through the next few steps. But first, she wants a shower.

She looks down at her clothes, rumpled as they are — she’s been wearing this outfit since they pulled her from her house in Nebraska, and it was a fifteen hour flight. She has completely lost track of time, and there is no way she can wear this thing tomorrow unless she sends it to be cleaned. Deciding that more flies are captured with honey than vinegar, she adopts a sweet tone.

"Don’t you have a meeting to return to?"

"It will keep for a short while longer."

"Then, would it be too much trouble to ask Hadley to send for these clothes to be cleaned tonight?"

"There are clothes in the wardrobe." He gestures to the fine cherry-wood and intricate carvings, tucked against the far wall. She has to pass him to get to it. This will put her in a much closer proximity, and the thought makes her uneasy. He still watches her as she moves. She has yet to see him blink.

When she left, she took nothing with her. Why does she think that when she opens those doors, everything will be as she left it? It’s an insane idea —

And totally wrong. These clothes are not hers. For one thing, they are much newer, in the current styles, and far more expensive and fine than anything she would wear. She didn’t like to show off, even though Tom consistently tried during their five years together to get her to draw more attention to herself.

She steps away. “These aren’t mine.”

He snorts. “You left. Did you really expect me to keep your things?”

"Then why is my old wardrobe filled with overpriced women’s clothing?"

Overpriced. It’s a jab. Tom loves showing off, loves flaunting his wealth. She waits for a reaction.

"Because you never know what might be needed," he said slowly. In that tone he uses when he wants to show everyone who is in charge.

There is a knock at the door. Tom bids them enter, and it is Hadley again. Tom turns to listen to whatever piece of news he’s being brought, and she reaches a hand inside the wardrobe. Everything smells clean. Not just clean, but new. It is obvious that some of them have never been worn because they still have the price tags on them.

And all of them are in her size.

She drops her hand back as if receiving an electric shock. Thankfully Tom has not turned back to her yet. What is he playing at, keeping a wardrobe full of clothes that no one is using? Or maybe she’s wrong, maybe only some of them haven’t been used yet, because her replacement — the thought slides down her throat and into her stomach like old sick — hasn’t been here long enough to go through them all.

When Tom returns to gazing at her, she realizes her cheeks are burning. She can control a lot of things but a shock like this is too much. He sees her red hue and one of his smirks starts to slither across his face.

"Something the matter, darling?"

"All these clothes are in my size," she says flatly. "Does your new girl look like me, too? Trying to find a clone so you can pretend nothing has changed? Keep it all business as usual?"

The cocky expression on his face deepens and his mouth opens to say something, probably a scathing remark. Suddenly there is a beep in his pocket and Tom pulls out his phone. He looks down at it, and whatever he was going to say is lost. His expression softens, and she is suddenly seized in the gut with how beautiful he is.

Five years is a long time, but it’s done nothing to take away his good looks. The freckles of his skin, the almost feminine flutter of his eyelashes, the stubble that is showing since he probably hasn’t shaved since early this morning and it is very, very late at night. The sharpness of his cheekbone and how it’s almost parallel to the line of that strong, angled jaw. Worst of all is his lips. Thin and fine, the bottom just a bit fuller than the top. The rich red color, like pomegranates, but not quite as dark. A bit more orange. Maybe it’s because she’s been away from him for such a pronounced period that she can see these things again with appreciation. Although she rarely ever forgot them when they were together.

Dammit, she has to look away. If he sees her staring at him like this she’ll never hear the end of it. He presses something on the phone and his eyes rise in time for her to find an unused nightgown hanging at the very end. Still with the price tag.

She swears she hears him make a low grunt. She steals a glance his way but instead of disapproval it’s just the opposite. Those blue eyes have taken on a familiar glaze, turning them stormy and dark.

"That will look nice on you."

"Too bad you won’t get to see it." She drops it on the bed, the heavy cream silk even sounding expensive as it rumples. "Some privacy, please? I trust you haven’t gone completely barbaric."

The mouth she’d been admiring now curves gently into a grin. It keeps his face soft, makes her remember better times in spite of herself. The chuckle that follows doesn’t help, either. He moves away from where he was leaning, taking a few smooth steps toward her.

"Still being thorny, my little Rose?" he whispers.

"Rosaline," she corrects him sharply, giving him a scowl for good measure. He’s been a wall of icy bricks this entire evening and suddenly he wants to flirt? She turns and heads toward the bath, but he side-steps in front of her, a smooth gliding hawk in a dark blue suit.

She looks up at him and sees that the rebuff at least has pushed that smug grin off his face. He frowns down at her — too much of that and he’ll permanently wrinkle that perfect, high brow — and she can feel his hand just hovering over her arm, wanting to land but knowing better.

"I thought it was my barbarous ways that drew you in," he said, his voice warm if his expression is not. His mouth is so close. Her eyes cannot seem to look away from it. If he kisses her, it is over. She can resist many things, but at the intimate range of a kiss she will be an unrolled scroll 

She stiffens her body, raising only her eyes to meet his. She cannot let him see her panic. She cannot let him see for one minute that she is seriously considering his unspoken suggestion, just because it’s been so long and she’s been so lonely and she has missed him so damn much…

But if she does… _he’ll see the stretch marks._ The ones on her lower abdomen that were never there before she left. And she cannot allow that.

"Tom," she says, her voice dead even. "Please, if you would, excuse me for the evening. I’m sure you’ve secured this room quite well and you can even put a guard at my door if you like. I am not going anywhere. But I wish be left alone."

He stares down at her so long she starts to wonder if she’s gone too far. She cannot read him — his face has gone to marble. She can only imagine what he’s thinking and none of it is good. But then, he straightens from where he was leaning slightly over her, and nods his head. Turning away from her, he goes to the door, opens it and steps through, turning to say:

"Goodnight then, Rosaline."

"Goodnight." When door clicks shut (the lock automatically slides into place, how typical) she feels her entire body slump. Quickly she heads for the bathroom so that she can at least be clean when she decides to pass out.


	9. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

“I wish be left alone.”

He kept himself just separate from her, mostly as a test of his own resolve, but also to test to hers. She didn’t deserve him trying to manipulate her into bed with him. The whole point to bringing her back was to keep her safe – still – if there were perks to be had…

Somewhere deep within him he can hear the gentleman howling. He does his best to stifle the echoes.

He is tempted to stop by his study, center himself once more before heading back out. Does she think him so paranoid now that he would need to keep her under lock and key? His enemies were not so numerous, nor so foolish, as to try to attack him in his own home. Perhaps he should have told her that the lock on her door was not to combat intruders but rather to save him from himself.

No – he would never admit that to her. It had been a hard lesson. He still couldn’t drink whiskey without flashes of that first year coming back in extreme detail.

He needs to focus now. Decisions that were required of him were easier without her voice providing comment in his head. _How could you, Tom. **How could you**?_ It takes effort but he shakes the memory loose and shuts it away.

Traveling by helicopter between the estate and his house makes transit time hardly noticeable. They circle around the estate before landing – perimeter check or just showing off. It gives him a nice view of the approach to the landing pad. Tom watches the helicopter lift off again. He pauses his progression up the driveway to watch it lift off and fly into the inky sky. “Looks like I’ll be driving the Jag home…” He mutters to himself.

He’s very late for the meeting now. He indulged himself, dawdling with Rose rather than turning immediately back to the estate. Hadley’s interruption had been ill timed but the news was welcome enough. It had been regarding the status of Tom’s cleanup crew. He was willing to allow the American team that had found Rose – _Rosaline_ – it seemed he would forever be correcting himself – to bring her back to London, but he would only allow hand selected individuals to rummage through and secure her things. It meant a delay in the collection and transferring of information to allow for transit time – the Americans only being allowed to sit and watch her place until his crew arrived. If it ensured keeping anything and everything about Rosaline within his purview, it was worth it.

 Ben’s text had interrupted what would have been an entertaining dispute. She accused him of finding a mistress in her image. The thought was both wounding and entertaining. If he hadn’t been interrupted he probably would have made up a woman or two, just to see if it would get a rise out of her. If she did react, would that change anything? He shoves that thought away.

Ben did give his blessing for the slight delay – in his own way – by sending Mark out to supervise the street cleanup. It was probably as penalty for shooting out the street lamp. Taking out the threat was fine, but the street lamp had been for show.

_Never cause more damage than absolutely necessary, Tom. It draws attention. Subtle moves to produce the desired result are more fitting a man of power._

Ok – so the maneuver in the road hadn’t been a small move, per se, and the Jag had paid the price for it – but he’d removed the problem. Maybe one of the drivers of the other vehicles in pursuit had survived their respective crashes so they could be questioned. He needed to know who was controlling the pieces on the board – _why_ they had been watching Rose, _why_ they had waited until he had brought her back to London to converge upon the pair of them. He is at the mercy of Mark and whatever might be revealed in his report on the status of the other drivers.

The feeling doesn’t sit well.

Noting that Mark’s vehicle is still missing from the driveway, Tom takes his time getting back to the meeting room. He rests his hand atop the roof of the Jag while he peers in the passenger window. Is there anything left in the vehicle that he might need for the meeting? Nothing that immediately springs to mind. Onward then to wait with Ben and perhaps be reprimanded for his personal errand.

Ben once again has the lights of the room dimmed while watching a security feed that is being projected onto the huge wall at the far end of the room. He nods in greeting to Tom while ending the conversation he was having on the phone. “The updates are appreciated. Dedication to detail is key. With any luck the flower problem will be resolved before the month is out.”

Tom occupies himself watching the security footage. The timestamp indicates these are the cameras that would have recorded his transit across the city towards the estate. Earlier his white Jag had flashed across each screen in turn – now there is just the typical nighttime ebb and flow of traffic. The techs had been busy during his absence.

Ben stands, taps out a series of keystrokes to shut the projection down again, and slips back into his jacket. Another lesson Ben has driven into Tom – dress the part. Style is key. The correct suit in the correct cut and it is clear who is in charge. Nobody will dare defy you.

The phrasing is so out of place coming from his mentor Tom can’t help but comment, “Flower problem?” He shouldn’t have been listening to the call and waits for the reprimand rather than an answer.

Ben chuckles, motioning for Tom to join him near the sidewall where the liquor cabinet resides. “Yes. A grounds keeping issue. They keep killing the roses.” He motions to the empty glasses atop the cabinet, “Care for a drink?”

Tom considers this offer carefully. Is this a test? Ben had finally had enough a little over a year ago and commented on Tom’s problem. The memory pushes to resurface and Tom once again tries to fight it back down. Tom had arrived to a meeting after a particularly bad day. Thinking you have something under control and actually having something under control are two drastically different things.

_The room had been buzzing with activity – or perhaps that was just the amount of whiskey in his system. The entire time Tom had been giving his report Ben had been scowling. Not at the numbers, the numbers had been sound. Ben had taken a side-step closer to Tom and inhaled audibly, the scowl deepening. “Tom,” his voice was so low that no one else scurrying around the room could hear the conversation. “You reek of whiskey.”_

Tom blinks himself back into the moment. Is Ben worried that Rosaline’s return is causing such emotional turmoil that Tom might once again need to dull himself with drink? Is it just an offered something to pass the time until Mark’s return? Tom finds himself wishing he better knew his mentor’s tells. Something to sip – possibly nurse throughout the meeting. He settles on the bottle of cognac, indicating as such to Ben.

If Ben approves or otherwise, he doesn’t show any indication. He is still the master of stoicism.

Tom manages to wet his lips with the liquid when Ben speaks, “Shall we get started?”

“But Mark isn’t back yet.” Tom tries to sound as though merely stating fact. It comes out evoking more petulant child than anything else – petulant child holding a glass of cognac.

Ben takes it all in stride, as always. “He’ll arrive shortly.” He fixes Tom with his dark gaze. “Though if you’re insistent on waiting, we can always discuss the night’s activities.”

_Walked right into that one_. Tom nods slowly. “It wasn’t my intention to cause any disruption.” How much should he admit to? Remembering Ben’s stance on the relationship from the very start, he went to Mark to recommend who to outsource the search to when he discovered that Rosaline’s life was in danger. “It was just supposed to be a simple handoff. I prepared for any small action but – unforeseen events…” _That_ sentence wasn’t going anywhere that reflected well on his preparedness.

Ben makes a noncommittal noise. Tom gives up on that line of thought in favor of another. “It is just temporary. She isn’t staying.”

That makes Ben raise an eyebrow slightly. He appears about to speak when Mark walks into the room. “Ah – perfect timing.”

Mark nods a greeting to Ben and then, observing both men holding drinks he focuses on making his own while talking over his shoulder to Tom. “A thanks wouldn’t be remiss.”

Tom takes another sip of his drink. “For?”

“Cleaning up your mess.”

Mark’s retort nearly makes Tom choke while swallowing. “ _My_ mess? “ His scowl deepens for a fraction of a second when he notices the drink that Mark has chosen: whiskey. He quickly recovers while Ben is distracted waiting for Mark’s next jibe.

“Indeed. Perhaps if your pants weren’t so tight, restricting the blood flow to your brain, you’d remember such…”

Tom dismisses Mark’s comment, talking right over him. “Am I the one that broke a lamppost? Remind me, how much does that cost to replace by morning?”

Mark glances sidelong at Ben, winces at the expression the elder man now shows on his face, then squints back at Tom. “I very well could have added to the Jag’s damage.”

“And then paid the cost of repairs.” Verbally sparring with Mark is something Tom can do in his sleep. This is not the reason they’re gathered in the middle of the night though. Why isn’t Ben commandeering the meeting to get it back on course? Tom slips into the role of moderator to get things on track.

Mark can’t resist a parting jab once they are outside. The scent of whiskey drifts through the night air when Mark wanders past and tilts his head at the damage to the driver’s side of Tom’s car, “Shame that couldn’t have been avoided. Perhaps you should have flown the private jet to your place instead of a random car park.”

Hating to allow Mark the last word, Tom exhales slowly, “Perhaps.” The moment the whiskey smell had registered with his nose the memory had dug itself free of its confines and sat stubbornly, vividly, on the surface of his brain, demanding attention. The drive home would be a long one. He’ll banish it the only way he knows how – the box hidden away in the safe in his study – hidden away behind the walls of Shakespearean works.

_So it had come to this. She left him. Disappeared with a handbag and the clothes she was wearing. He wondered if she would change her mind after a day or two – they had reconciled their differences before. This was different. She closed out her account – an account he didn’t know she even had – and despite sending his innumerous contacts out to search no one seemed to be able to find any small detail to tell him where she’d gone._

_His Rose, **his** Rose – gone. _

_He’d been drinking. A nearly empty bottle now at rest atop his desk. The scent of whiskey permeated the room now, overpowering the leather bound collection, the sofa, her delicate scent that had lasted on his clothing though it had been days._

_Days!_

_The thought made him growl and toss the tumbler in his hand, drink and all, across the room. The sound of shattering glass provided some small note of satisfaction through the drunken rage. More. More destruction. The phantom scent of her urged him to turn his head, as though she had appeared in the doorway and summoned him to follow. He had stopped to snag the bottle before weaving his way along, following the phantom trail of her perfume._

_It didn’t lead him to his room - to the bed he should probably be falling into right now. Instead it led him to the door of **that** room. The room she up and moved into after … he growled again and shoved the door open. _

_Her scent now overwhelmed him. This is her taunting him. Taunting the monster that now ruled his actions. The monster that howled at her betrayal. He could hear the whiskey slosh around in the bottle, and took another long drink to try to silence the creature. It only served to amplify the noise it made._

_The breaking glass. Destruction. It seemed to enjoy that. His eyes roamed the room, to search out something else to direct this rage at – the phantom trail of perfume pulled his eye to the corner of the room. The door to her wardrobe sat open.  Her clothes. That was where the smell was coming from._

_He didn’t much pay attention to the item he lurched to grab from the safety of its hanger. The sound of the soft fabric splitting under his grip provided some small satisfaction._

_Head throbbing, he woke to find himself in his room, laying atop his bed sheets fully clothed. The memory of what transpired was only somewhat cooperative. He remembered bits and pieces of the experience. It wasn’t until he moved to stand that he saw the remnants of the dress he destroyed. Guilt stabbed at him, providing a distraction from the headache. He wandered down to her room to survey the state of it. There was only the slightest hint of the scent of whiskey in her room at that point._

_The scent of her perfume seemed slightly duller that morning than it he remembered it being the night before. Quietly he shut the door and turned toward his study. There would be a mess – how would he explain it to – he found the study immaculate with the scent of leather cleaner battling for ownership of the room once again._

_Hadley had been hard at work before the rest of the house had stirred._

_The last thing to do to rectify all that had been done would be to replace the dress. He would do that immediately, slip out and replace the item with something superior so when she returned she would…._

He shakes himself free of the memory.

Thomas William Hiddleston, London Lord of Crime, does not dwell on such things.


	10. Love's Labor's Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rosaline]

_It just figures. I'm utterly exhausted, and unable to sleep a wink._

Rosaline stares up at the ceiling. She cannot stop thinking about Tom. It’s like he’s in the room with her, his presence is so real in her head. But it’s not the Tom who greeted her in the carpark. It’s not the Tom who escorted her into the helicopter in genteel politeness that thinly dressed the pure steel underneath. It’s the Tom she met that day, five years ago, with her father at the alumni club.

The second she lay down in this bed, the memories started coming back. The only thing that had kept her from running back two years ago was her suppression of those memories. She has to remember the reasons she left.

Four months, she'd spent in this room. How that marked the beginning of the end. How she finally came to see all the things she had blinded herself to over the previous five years.

How he had changed.

It always struck her as funny – usually when she met a man she was interested in, it was some particular aspect that caught her eye, but she never found her physical attraction kicking in until she knew something about him. Something would get her attention, but he still had to prove himself worthy of her time.

With Tom, the thing she had caught was the width of his shoulders.

_He was nicely built, tall and lean but not skinny. His white button-up shirt clung to him like a second skin. He’d rolled up the sleeves to his elbows so that his tan was more apparent. He kept smoothing his expensive and elegant tie down his front in a repetitive gesture that wasn’t supposed to be nervous. With a drink in his hand, he was keeping conversation with an important looking older gentleman and three others who seemed more intent on impressing him than being impressed by him. And he was young, younger than all of them. He had a confidence and a throwaway-air of command that immediately caught her attention._

_And he’d caught her looking at him. His eyes would sweep the room occasionally, and just as she tried to look away so he wouldn’t see, their eyes had met._

_She immediately looked away, embarrassed. Her father, thankfully, was nearby, and suggested they find some refreshments, which immediately occupied her and kept her cheeks from going quite as red as they might have._

_She was just a chippie, a girl invited to hang out with the adults. She’d just graduated from Cambridge, and her father had taken her to the alumni club to rub elbows and see if she could make a few connections in her hunt for a good opening position, but so far she’d been overcome by shyness. She knew puberty had been kind to her, and that she had good genes, and was a far cry from ugly, but deep inside she always felt like a fat, dumpy little fifth grader. She couldn’t seem to overcome it._

_So when the older gentleman and her father wound up remembering each other from some former business deal, she wanted to melt behind her father and have him shield her as if she actually were a child. But this wouldn’t do. So she straightened her shoulders and smoothed her black and white lace dress and shook Mr. Kingsley’s hand when her father introduced her._

_Tom came along only moments later. Ben Kingsley introduced them all, but after meeting Tom’s eyes she barely heard any of it. He didn’t look away; he had her pinned in place. She didn’t know what to do, she could only smile and drag her eyes away toward her dad for some kind of reassurance, onto find Tom’s still on her when she would look back. It was intimidating…and thrilling. Those lips held the hint of a smile of promise, and she felt an exhilaration that plump little junior in her could only have dreamed about._

_There were few greater pleasures than liking a boy and finding out he liked you back. When that happened, it felt like some great mystery in life had been solved, and that nothing else mattered, because everything would work out. It had to. Simple as that._

_Her father managed to drag her away for a few minutes when Ben and Tom were approached by someone who thought they were important enough to interrupt. She had always been close to her dad, and was keen to his mood shifts, so when he turned to her she quickly caught the disapproval on his face._

_“Not so good to make any business contacts with that one,” he said. “I’ve hear rumors about Kingsley that aren’t good. If that young man is in steady business with him, you can bet they are mixed up in the same thing.”_

_But the blush of first love wasn’t going to be deterred by something as small as parental disapproval. Her dad had a wisdom she had never been able to pin down, much less gain, and for some reason he didn’t object when Tom approached them a short while later and asked her if he couldn’t refresh her drink. At the bar, the conversation had started._

_“Rosaline,” Tom said, musing over her name. “Very Shakespearean.”_

_Rosaline made herself not roll her eyes. But never one to check her mouth before words left it, she said, “Yes, very British. Sometimes I wonder if you Brits are aware of any other authors in the world.”_

_He raised an eyebrow – the first time that particular tick made her flesh tingle. “You Brits? You mean you aren’t –“_

_“I’m a hybrid,” she said, sipping her cocktail. “My mother is American. They met and married in Hong Kong, actually. That’s where I was born. I spent most of my childhood in the states but we spent enough time in England for my accent to stick. I just finished uni so I’m sure I sound a lot more British than I did four years ago.”_

_“And this exotic upbringing,” Tom said, his eyes glinting as he teased, “has broadened your literary horizons to more than just the Great Bard?”_

_She gave a half shrug. “I just never got much out of it. It always seemed rather flat to me.”_

_“Just reading it, or have you actually attended performances?”_

_“Admittedly, we’ve never been big theater goers.”_

_“Then there’s your problem.” And to her surprise, he broke into a verse:_

“ **Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives,**  
 **Live register'd upon our brazen tombs**  
 **And then grace us in the disgrace of death;  
 **When, spite of cormorant devouring Time,  
 **The endeavor of this present breath may buy  
 **That honour which shall bate his scythe's keen edge  
 **And make us heirs of all eternity******** _._ _”_**

_He spoke with both ease and passion. It immediately caught her attention. Normally she might have been embarrassed, because he was also getting looks from others in the room, but he was so...sure of himself. She couldn't bring herself to concentrate on anything but him._

_She gave him a questioning look when he was done, and his triumph was evident in his voice as he supplied, “Love’s Labors Lost. First scene, King Ferdinand of Navarre talks about founding the university and gaining knowledge not for its sake, but to be famous. The same play your namesake is in, Lady Rosaline. Ferdinand wants all his men to take an oath swearing off women and sleep in favor of study, but he falls in love with the Princess of France in the very next act. Lady Rosaline is one of her maids, the object of affection of one of the King’s men, Berowne. It’s a comedy, so of course there are mix-ups and general confusion until everything is sorted out. Didn’t used to be one of my favorites…until recently.”_

_Her insides fluttered at the look he gave her. Still, she managed to ask, “So if all of them took this oath to swear off women, how do they justify their courtship of the Princess and her maids? Shakespeare had no love for oathbreakers.”_

_“It’s because the Princess and her ladies are just that, maids,” he replied, leaning down a bit on his arms to level his gaze with hers. “Their purity and nobility elevate them higher than the common term, ‘women.’” He paused for a moment, searching for the words. His voice was lower when he spoke again. “What he wanted them to swear off was sex.”_

_She felt a blush creeping up, fought to shake it off. He was testing her, she could feel it. “Sex is distracting.”_

_He nodded. “One would never dream of seducing ladies of noble birth, women who were intended to be wives. Therefore, it was still preserving the oath.”_

_“Ah, the old days,” Rosaline said wistfully._

_“Indeed,” he agreed, giving her a smile._

_From that moment on, she knew he had her._

Rose rolls over and turns on the light.

He hadn’t attempted to court her right away – it was amazing how saying “no” to someone was the surest way to make them chase after you. She never saw herself as a pursuant, not once, but she knew he led her along. First with the suggestions on where to apply for the right positions. Then carefully letting her make her own way so that she wouldn’t feel her success was due to his connections. He saw her, still, often enough so that she wouldn’t forget him, and keep the flame burning bright, but their “dates” were often casual or business related and conversation stayed either on his love of Shakespeare or her daily struggles to make a name for herself. Nothing formal, nothing passionate. She started to wonder, after a few months, if she’d just imagined how he flirted with her.

Then, when she was promoted, she was so excited that she called him, a first for her, and begged him to let her take him out to celebrate. He chuckled at her, and said plainly, “No, my dear, it’s my place to treat you, not the other way around.”

That night, all came out in the open. After a long dinner, and much more personal conversation, he had taken her home and kissed her. The sort of first kiss that lights the insides on fire and only desires to burn hotter.

Their relationship was carefully separated from their work lives, because of all the business connections they shared. Rosaline wanted to believe it was her own hard work that got her the next promotion a few months later, but she couldn’t help but worry that he was pulling strings for her behind the scenes. Still, she could find no direct connection, no word dropped here or there that suggested favoritism.

On their first anniversary, he had first talked to her about getting married. He gave her a rope of pearl-shaped opals, bright white with veins of color dancing through them, growing more intense when the stones became warm against her skin. She double-looped them around her neck so that they brushed against her cleavage, and that was the first night they made love.

Within weeks he wanted her to move in. It all seemed anticipatory. They would marry eventually, he swore she was his one and only. He never wanted anyone else. This was a permanent situation, and it was only a matter of time before the official bits caught up. And he had a way of doing it that didn’t make him seem like an eager, lovesick puppy – he wore an air of such confidence and dominance about him that she found herself putting all her trust in him with little to no argument. She let him lead, she followed.

A year, two, three…business growing, her advancing, Tom building his empire. She was too stubbornly happy to see what was happening. She was too much in love and blind with delusions of the future to see how he had roped her in. Instead of getting angry for not marrying her right away, she let herself be convinced that they had to wait for the right time. Four years of waiting for the right time should have woken her up – four years of Tom smiling less, talking less, never saying _I love you_ unless it was some unguarded moment where it almost came out of him against his will. Of him growing harder, colder, but no, she didn’t want to see it, she just went along because he was the only thing that made her happy, and he treated her like a queen; she knew she stood between him and the rest of the world and she was the only one who could get inside his head, at least for brief moments. She could have looked and seen how far down it was from where they stood, but he indulged her and spoiled her and blinded her with everything she _thought_ she wanted.

But worse, so much worse, were the moments when she could see him as he was. As that softer man who smiled more, who looked at her with tenderness and affection. The times she could feel the influence she had over him, drawing him out, into the safety of her arms and her heart. These kept her hoping, kept her blind to the realities that drew around her tightly like heavy shadows...

The last lament is cut off by a soft knock at the door.

She almost laughs. Tom locked the door when he left. She has no way to answer.

Then she hears the key turn, and terror races up her spine. Tom is back, and he's not happy, and God knows what is going to happen---

But it is Hadley. Peeking around the door. "I saw your light still on, miss. Is there anything I can get you?"

She lets out her breath and releases the death grip she'd had on the duvet. Sitting up against the headboard with the sheets pulled up to her shoulders, she must look quite a sight, she thinks. But she lets out a relieved chuckle and shakes her head. "Thank you, Hadley, no."

"Trouble sleeping, miss?"

"Too tired. Can't relax."

"Perhaps something strong to drink would help."

She considers it. "Do you have any more of that--"

"The bottle hasn't been touched since you left, miss," Hadley says with a smile. He turns and opens the door, then pauses, looking at her. "The door automatically locks when it shuts but will always open from the inside. If you need to leave the room for any reason be sure to leave it ajar so you don’t get locked out." He chuckles and leaves.

Rose puzzles over this unexpected bit of information until he returns with a crystal glass filled with a generous portion of liquor. She starts to get up but he brings it to her bedside. The thick, almost sweet liquid instantly causes a warm feeling in her belly. She settles back against the pillows and thinks maybe she can sleep.

"Anything else, miss?"

"No, I think I'm better now, Hadley." He smiles, turns to leave, but maybe it's the alcohol in her brain making her loose, and she calls, "Wait."

He stops at the door, turns, expectant.

"How is he, Hadley?" she asks.

Hadley doesn't answer for a moment. "Since you left?" he finally asks.

She nods.

For a moment, she is convinced he's going to lie. Hadley never talks about "Mr. Hiddleston, sir." He would never in a million years break a confidence, let slip a piece of personal information. It isn't so much that Tom trusts Hadley enough to keep his council, but if you run a man's house as long as Hadley has, you learn things, you see signs, and you know the moods.

"Miserable, miss."

She lets out her breath. Tom, miserable? How would anybody know? Her eyes drift to the wardrobe, to the clothes hanging from hangers, clothes that aren’t hers.

Hadley must see her looking at the wardrobe. They’d always gotten along so well, the two of them trying to manage Tom. When she looks back at him, his expression is expectant.

“And…have there been…other women?” She hates how it sounds. She hates sounding jealous. She wanted to be indifferent, curious, inquisitive. She sounds like none of those things.

To her surprise, he snorts. “Other women…”

Quickly, still embarrassed, she rushes on. “I just thought…with the clothes, in the wardrobe.”

Hadley looks to the wardrobe. There is hesitation on his face, but she can see he knows. He knows what’s going on. He wouldn’t tell her. He _shouldn’t_ tell her. But the nightgown she’s wearing starts to itch like it bears a curse and her expression turns pleading.

“He thought he was being sly,” Hadley says, half-distracted. His eyes focus on her, and she can see both determination and guilt. “There would be…evenings. When he would lock himself up in his study and specifically order me not to disturb him unless it was a true emergency, and of course I complied. This was never unusual before. But when I would be passing on the final round for the night, sometime around one or sometimes later, I would see the door open and he wasn’t in the study anymore.”

She almost doesn’t want to ask. “Was he…here?”

Hadley ducks his head, as if ashamed of saying that much. “I would go into the study and find something broken. First time was one of the Waterford crystal glasses and a puddle of whisky on the floor. Or a book would be tossed across the room, one of the expensive editions. People started to notice…after a few weeks. And of course the liquor bill spiked.”

Rosaline shakes her head, a nervous response or some kind of denial, she isn’t sure.

“And then I found scraps of clothing in his bedroom. Or an extra bag of trash set to go out. I couldn’t figure out where they were coming from until I recognized one of…” But he stops himself. It’s nearly a physical jerk. “Anyway. I always keep even the unused rooms in order, and I noticed that the clothing in the wardrobe would change, once a week, sometimes every few weeks. Newer, more expensive things replacing yours. I put together what he was doing. There was nothing to be done but to…”

He trails off. She supplies, “Hide the whiskey?”

He graces her with one of his broad smiles. “Yes, miss.” He clears his throat. “After a year, it stopped.”

Rose sits silent for a long two minutes, trying to absorb the information.

“I trust this conversation never took place,” Hadley then says, softly.

She smiles at him. “What conversation?”

He nods, turns to go.

“Wait, Haldey---?”

“Yes?”

“Does he know?”

"I wouldn't be standing here now if he did."

She nods again.

"Goodnight, miss."

"Goodnight." And she's alone with her thoughts again. Tom was going on drunken rages and destroying her clothes? Does this mean her leaving hurt his pride or his heart? She can’t figure one way or the other. Tom’s way of dealing with loss of control when it comes to her has never been healthy.

Rose reaches up and feels the moisture sliding along her cheek. She lies back against the pillows and puts out the light. She cannot bear any more painful memories this night. Tears and alcohol make sleep finally come.


	11. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

Tom is in his study, pacing. He has yet to get any sleep. This day is never ending. He is trying desperately to hold onto what little control he can muster to prevent himself from going off. Pulling Rose back in to his sphere of influence has left him completely off kilter. Add to that the phone call he just received from his men in Nebraska. The three of them had found something and it was threatening to swallow him.

His suit jacket is tossed, forgotten, over the back of the sofa while he paces. Paperwork is scattered all over the floor, fluttering with every pass he makes. The door is shut to block his muttered, sputtered curses from being overheard by the others in the household. He wants to keep his struggle as private as possible. A few brave members of the staff remain awake, occasionally jumping when an explicative is shouted or a crash comes from the other side of the heavy wooden door.

So far he’s been able to keep himself from going into the liquor cabinet. A few of his volumes, the guest chair, and pretty much everything was light enough to throw, and made a satisfying shattering sound, had suffered in consequence.

He had shut himself in his study because wanted to be in control before he faced her. Questioned her. He wanted to be able to deliver the angry accusations while being his impassive, imposing self.  

He circled towards the crystal decorative piece that sat at shoulder height on the mantle. Heavy enough to cause a dent in the door – or send the wall of books crashing down. Perhaps into the window? It is a heavy enough piece it might actually go crashing through and disappear into the grayness of the night sky. He settles on hurling it into the mantle itself, flinging it with such force at the wood paneled wall that the piece shatters. He’ll replace it – he has the money to replace every damaged thing in this room ten times over.

Still not satisfied with the destruction he’s caused so far he continues to pace. With every pass, the whiskey in the liquor cabinet taunts him.

_No. That is not the solution to this problem._ But it would dull the anger. The ache. _Just a glass. Just a sip._

_No._ He is dangerous enough without alcohol coming in to play. 

 ------10 Hours Ago ------

_“This looks like a monumental waste of our time.” The three men had been cleaning Rosaline’s place with care, taking care to leave things as they found it as instructed. They were just collecting details. One sits hunched over bits of paper, trying to work out their significance, another on the far side of the room, the third in the kitchen._

_The man in the kitchen flips a wooden spoon in his hands before replacing it in the drawer he pulled it from. “God I’m bored.” He sighs and turns to the refrigerator that has been buzzing just loudly enough to start to irritate. He opens the refrigerator door to examine the contents. Milk – that will go bad before too much longer, random pieces of fruit – he’ll just grab a bag and throw it all away before they lock the place up, take away containers, a few bottles of salad dressing, mayonnaise. He stoops down to look towards the back of the shelves and freezes. “Uh – guys. You need to see this.”_

_The man flipping through pages, Jacob, pauses to look up and sigh, “Now is not the time to eat, Paul.”_

_“I’m not – oh hell. Jacob, Ethan – come look at this.” Paul hasn’t moved a muscle._

_Jacob puts the papers down in his lap and shakes his head, “If it’s moldy food you need to grow up.”_

_Ethan hasn’t turned around yet, “Both of you shut up.”_

_Paul continues to stutter through his sentence, “I’m – look – we’re – I’m not calling him with this…”_

_Both of the other men are now drawn, curious what has Paul so flustered. What could it be? There hasn’t been anything of note discovered yet. Jacob reaches Paul’s side first, leaning down to stare into the refrigerator as well. Shoved into the far back corner, nearly hidden from view, there sits a baby bottle._

_Jacob stands, considering the options, “Maybe it belongs to a friend? A friend with a baby?” Jacob reaches in to pull the bottle out and allow the three of them to stand rather than hunch over before the refrigerator. Paul is still marveling at the find while Jacob considers the thing in his hands, examining the cold plastic and contents within. “Looks new.”_

_“What do you know? You’re not a father.” Paul has taken a few steps away, as though close proximity to the bottle itself will incriminate him and bring Mr. Hiddleston’s wrath harder down upon him._

_“Neither are you.” Jacob shifts his eyes away from the bottle to roll them at Paul._

_Ethan is losing his patience with both of them. “Both of you shut up and look for something to help explain that. Put it down and find me a picture of those friends you suggested, Jacob.”_

_Paul snorts, “Friends? Do you see anything here indicating a social life? It’s hers – oh hell. I’m_ **not** _calling.”_

_“Help look.” Ethan sighs._

_“Not calling, man.” Paul is repeating himself in his panic._

_Ethan takes the bottle from Jacob, commanding to both of them before pointing to Paul. “Search. Stop talking.”_

_Jacob waves his hands around the room. “What is there to search for? There’s nothing here, save for that!”_

_“You’re both bloody useless. Shut up and help me search. Actually – scratch that. Paul? Paul.” Once he has the other man’s attention he nods, “Stop muttering about calling him. I’ll call. I want all the research we can possibly find. Any information you can dig up – all the birth details. Every. Single. Record. What hospital. Time of damned day. Everything. Hell, give me the stats of everybody present on the floor.” If he’s going to call his boss and potentially risk his career, risk his life, to impart this news – he wants to have everything complied and be absolutely sure of every detail._

_A few hours later Paul and Jacob sit in the car, cramped and exhausted. They’d started the afternoon on the phone trying to talk their way into digitally accessing any patient files for a woman named Rosaline who had given birth in the past year or so. After the fifth time Ethan was either put on hold or transferred, they’d gone with a different tactic. Threaten until they were satisfied the poor bastard at each respective hospital that had answered the phone knew nothing._

_The list was starting to dwindle and Paul was starting to panic again when Jacob finally received an astonished, nervous reply: “Yes. We have a Rosaline _______ on record as having given birth here.”_

_That was how Paul and Jacob ended up waiting at the curb in front of the hospital in a car borrowed from their American counterparts. Ethan was inside using whatever tactic he could think of to get copies of all records the hospital had._

_Jacob was watching the doors to the hospital sullenly and then jumps when he sees Ethan walking with purpose towards the car. “Well – he’s holding a file…”_

_“That’s a good thing, right?”_

_Paul starts the car while trying to peer around Jacob, who hasn’t looked away from the third man’s face. “Ah. He looks pissed.” He rolls down his window to start talking to Ethan as he approached the vehicle._

_Ethan speaks before Jacob can ask him anything. “Asshole deleted the digital files before sending them to me. Said there was paperwork missing too because he noted extra lab work was requested. Unusual – he said. No way in hell I’m adding that to the report yet.” He wrenches the car door open and then slams it behind him._

_Jacob turns halfway in his seat. “So – we call him now?”_

_“No.” Ethan shakes his head hard and then jabs his hand sideways, pointing with two fingers at the car that had followed them. Their American counterparts weren’t comfortable letting their UK brethren run amok in their territory. Just wait till they found out about the threatening. “We’re going to get them to take us to their office so we can digitize all this and review every last word. **Then** we call him.” _

_Tom hadn’t quite believed what Ethan had told him. Not at first. “Say. That. Again.”_

_“She checked into the hospital under her own name. That’s why we didn’t find anything at first. We assumed she’d be trying to use an alias. She gave birth, boss. To a baby boy. We did some checking – birth records and – look, we sent you the documentation.”_

_Tom had hung up on Ethan to pour over the documents. That’s when the pacing started._

This is what he had driven her to – the woman he loved had chosen to leave him to escape the lifestyle – to escape him. Not only that, but had chosen to give birth alone, become a single mother – rather than bring a child into the world he had constructed. They had talked about getting married, about having a family.

She’d given birth to a boy.

He had a son.

No – _she_ had a son.

That’s when the lamp had been smashed.

_She had deprived him of being there to watch her belly swell._

All of the papers had fluttered to the floor like leaves rustling to the ground after a gust of wind. Not nearly satisfying. The few other objects atop his desk had been flung into the bookcase, knocking a few volumes to the floor. Slightly more cathartic, but not by much.

_He hadn’t gotten to feel the first kick._

He circles the room again, searching out something else to smash. The liquor cabinet still remains untouched. He knows from experience the glasses shatter in nice, satisfying explosions of crystalline shards. _Maybe save that for last..._ Opening those doors might draw the liquid into his hands and he doesn’t want that, not yet. He circles back around only to be greeted by the wall of his leather-bound books. One title in particular pulls his attention.

_Love’s Labour’s Lost._

That’s the first to be torn apart. Each page ripped from its binding only adds to his anger. That volume destroyed, he reaches for another, and another, flinging pages away from himself as he stalks around the room.

_He hadn’t been able to hold her hand during labor. She would have been beautiful, laying there cursing him for ever touching her while squeezing his hand during contractions. Admittedly, he would have berated everyone within eyesight for allowing her pain to continue._

_He would have been there if he’d known. She had denied him that._

He picks up the hulking chair that usually sits across from his desk. Guests always complemented how comfortable it was. It shatters nicely against the heavy wooden door that led to the hallway.

The hallway.

He could go, storm right into her room and – _No. Control yourself first, Hiddleston._

He turns, walks straight to the wall where the panel hides the television, and roars as he slams his fist into the panel. There will be a bruise, if he hasn’t broken any of the fine bones in his hand, but the pain helps him refocus. This temper tantrum has done nothing but create an absolute mess of his study.

It takes him a few minutes more before he judges himself able to hold his usual mask in place. He picks his way through the mess on the floor to get to the door, pulling it open – the action sweeping pieces of broken chair and glass along the floor. He’ll have to pay to remove those scratches too. He is distracted now, planning out the conversation. He would simply knock on her door, apologize for waking her in the middle of the night….

Hadley is standing, blocking his path down the hallway. He looks past Hadley to the stairwell leading to the second floor and Rose’s bedroom door before looking back at his head of household. “Hadley.”

“Sir.” Hadley gives him a small nod in return.

Tom tries to sidestep to the open part of the hallway to continue towards his destination but Hadley steps in front of him again. Tom scowls slightly. “Hadley. Let me pass.”

Hadley’s accent slips out in his response. “Sorry, sir. I cannae do that.”

"I am not playing a game with you, Hadley. Let me pass."

"No, sir." Hadley sniffs him, testing for any hint of whiskey. "But we heard you moments ago, sir. You seemed very upset."

Tom flexes his fingers and takes a step towards the shorter man, trying to use his full height to his advantage and loom over Hadley as he speaks. “Do you consider this wise, Hadley?”

Hadley doesn’t flinch. He is used to Tom’s behavior. "If you'd like, sir, we can go to the training room to spar. That usually helps to clear your head."

“I don’t need to clear my head, I need to talk to Rose. Stand aside.” Tom takes a step back to try to prove his point. He has worn through most of his aggression.

Hadley still doesn’t budge, still studying his boss. Then he turns, to allow Tom access to the stairs. “I’ll let you pass, sir. But I won’t give you the key to the room. She must decide to let you in.”

They walk in silence up the stairs and to her door. Tom knocks lightly, “Rose? I just want to talk.” He won’t bother with holding to her command of calling her Rosaline. Not anymore. “Rose?” She doesn’t respond. Tom looks back at Hadley who stands impassive. “The key, Hadley.”

“No.”

_Stubborn damn…_

Tom knocks a little harder on the door. “Rose! I know. You hear me, Rose? I know!" He steps back, turning to address both Hadley and the unopened door. "I want to talk about Thomas William Hiddleston the Second."


	12. Cufflinks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rose]

Rose is awakened by a thud.

She’s not sure where it came from or if she even heard it. Her sleep has not been deep or comforting, just superficial and enough to take the edge off the exhaustion.

She lies awake, listening. She remembers very quickly where she is, why she’s here. She never forgot, not even in her sleep.

Then she hears the shattering. It causes one wall of the house to vibrate. She sits up, her heartbeat suddenly going wild.

Tom knows. _No, Tom can’t know_. She was so careful…

_He’s Tom. He knows. You knew he was going to find out eventually_.

Rose gets out of bed and goes to the door. As Hadley said, it opened from the inside. She leaves it half-open as she steps into the hallway. She will need somewhere to flee if what has happened is what she thinks has happened.

The hallway is not entirely dark. Hadley always keeps some lights on, at Tom’s instructions. It is never to appear as if no one is there, but she knows people work around the clock in this home. Someone is doing something somewhere, and they are probably all freaking out at the racket just like she is. But only she can come look. The rest would put their heads down and ignore it, waiting for it to pass.

She reaches the top of the main staircase and carefully descends it, her feet bare and making no noise. She forgot to grab a robe or anything – not that she even wants to take a closer look at the closet and see the fine clothes Tom has bought her while she was gone – that hasn’t even fully sunk in yet – so she is bare shouldered and wearing a skirt that flutters like a ballgown, only much more sheer.

As she rounds the banister, she catches more sounds, and hears Tom’s voice. She rarely ever heard his voice raised in anger. Yes he was often angry, but his rage was expressed in the slow, simmering way…

Suddenly Hadley is there. He came from the other hallway, looking at the door with real worry on his face. He doesn’t see her.

Until one particularly ugly, loud, long, drawn out series of expletives rumbles through the door and something hits it. Hadley jumps, Rose jumps and gasps. Hadley hear it, turns, sees her and immediately rushes over to her.

“Go back to your room, miss,” he orders, real fear on his face. This makes it worse, not better.

She just stands there, staring. Frozen.

“Go!”

She turns and flees. The door is still open as she left it and she shuts it, hoping Hadley was right about it being locked from the outside. The twisted thought that Tom hadn’t meant to lock her in, but keep others out, fills her head and she can’t register it, she can’t get her feet under her, she didn’t sleep enough, her head is unclear and she stumbles backwards until the backs of her knees hit the bed and she ends up on her backside. At least it was on the mattress, she thinks.

She sits there, trying to breathe, trying to calm herself. It could be something else, she tells herself. It could be any number of things. She knows what Tom is now, no matter how much she tried to ignore it or deny it. She knows he’s done terrible things, knows somewhat what he’s capable of. She knows this life and why she left it, so there is no absolute reason to think that he’s discovered what she’s been hiding and is rightfully infuriated over it.

_But what if it is? What is he doing to do?_

Because when it comes to her, Tom stopped having rational reactions a long time ago. She can’t fathom how far he’s fallen from that first time – but she’s sure that wasn’t the first time.

**_No, no, don't think about this. Don't think about it..._ **

That stupid shopping trip. She had just wanted some time to be alone.

_Sundays were always her day. She never planned any work for Sunday. Tom always wanted someone with her, but she started to feel like a watched child, so she managed to convince him to let her go alone. He hadn't liked it, but she pouted and he caved. Not an easy accomplishment._

_It bugged her, a bit. He should have offered to go with her himself, but he never did that anymore. In fact, she'd been trying to remember exactly when had been the last time he'd gone out with her for anything that wasn't expected of them, any time he had spent with her that didn't require her to be on his arm in a fancy dress, or in a boardroom -- and then the kid came at her like a blur._

_He grabbed at her purse, tucked under her arm. The motion had sent her flying into some fake plants, scraped the side of her lower arm, and would have knocked her down entirely if not for the fact that she'd clamped down on her purse, and the force of the kid trying to yank it away from her actually pulled her back up._

_She managed to get his instep pretty good with her low heel, and this brought a security guard running. It seemed like the two men knew each other, the way they interacted. The security guard handcuffed the kid, calling for some backup to get the kid to the holding office so they could call the real police. The guard looked her up and down, asked her if she was all right, and Rosaline just shook her head and brushed her arm, saying she was none the worse for wear._

_"I know it doesn't mean much," the guard said, "but he's not a bad kid. He's just watching out for his little sister. They don't have much, no education either, and they don't know any other way. I've been trying to get him to clean up his act for months now, but maybe this visit to the clink will finally get some sense into his head."_

_They wanted to take her statement, which she'd given. She was careful to give them her personal cell phone number -- if Tom found out about this, he would_ **erupt** _. Not only had she manipulated him into letting her go out alone, but she had almost been mugged! It was a new experience, and it took a few more hours of walking around to shake if off before she felt calm enough to return home._

_That evening, as she was dressing for bed, she saw the bruise. Along her lower arm, on the outside, right along the bone. The skin was scraped up, the blood very minimal, but underneath it was a blend of red and purple that looked like paint that had been smudged on her flesh._

_There wasn't any time to hide it. Tom came into the room and immediately zeroed in on it. "What happened?" he demanded, approaching her and taking her wrist (gently) to shift her arm so he could see it better._

_"Stupid accident," she said carelessly. He arched an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to continue. "I was shopping and I was knocked into some plants. An_ **accident** _," she stressed._

_He continued to look at her. He always knew when she was lying, even about the smallest things. "And who knocked you into those plants?" he asked, his voice cool, but his eyes dark._

_She looked down. She couldn't tell him. "I don't...remember. It was hours ago, Tom. It was an --"_

_"Do_ **not** _say it was an accident again," he instructed. His fingers lightly pulled her chin up so he could look right into her eyes. The other hand still held her wrist firmly. "Tell me what happened."_

_She scowled at his tone. "I am_ **fine** _. It's barely anything. You are making a big deal out of nothing--"_

_"If it's nothing," he said, his voice so low it was almost soft, "_ **then why won't you tell me** _?"_

_With a sigh, she said, "Someone tried to grab my purse. They didn't get it," she added quickly when he straightened and dropped her wrist._

_"Someone tried to mug you," he stated._

_She nodded._ **Damn him** _._

_"And where is this person now?"_

_"I have no idea. Security took him away."_

_"And where did this happen?"_

_"I don't remember." That wasn't a complete lie. She'd walked around so much she had forgotten the location._

_He snorted, but finally relented. She turned away from him and went to bed, and there was no further exchange that night._

_A week later, they were set to attend a gala. He'd insisted she buy a new gown to impress the investors, and it was a beautiful, deep aquamarine satin confection, asymmetrical in design. She wore the opals he gave her in a quadruple loop, so that they hugged her neck like a thick choker. Having finally finished her make-up, she went to help him with his cufflinks._

_And saw the blood._

_It was a tiny, tiny drop. Wedged between the dark onyx and the gleaming platinum, where they didn't quite meet._

_She stared down at it. Twisted the cufflink to make sure she wasn't seeing things, that it wasn't a trick of the light._

_"Tom," she said, her brow wrinkled in a puzzled frown. "What is this?" She glanced up at him, at his jaw first, wondering if he'd cut himself shaving._

_He kept his eyes on it. She could practically see the wheels in his head, spinning. Tom was so good at thinking quickly, but even he seemed totally shocked by the red dot. As much as Tom was capable of being shocked by anything, at any rate. Only his raised eyebrows gave it away._

_She let go of his sleeve. "Tom?" she pressed._

_Still, nothing. He just stood there. Finally he raised his eyes to hers, but his mouth remained closed._

_"Did something happen?" she asked, knowing she had to play this just right. Tom did not like to be nagged, it would just push him further away. He already didn't talk to her like he used to, not anymore. Their long evenings in his study, listening to, watching, reading Shakespeare, talking about it, other things weaving their way into their conversation, those nights were few and far between now. Even when they were intimate it held hints of obligation, not passion. Things had been slowly getting more and more distant, and she had turned a blind eye to it, saying it was just work, they were both busy, Tom was preoccupied but he'd come back, he went through phases like this, she probably did, too. It was no big deal._

_But for him to just...stand there. Mute._

_She took his hand and looked over it for cuts - although how he could have cut himself there she doesn't want to ask. Then pushed down his sleeve and checked the fine skin of his delicate wrists. He would never have put on a white shirt if there was a chance blood would get on it._

_"What are you doing?" he asked, and while once upon a time that question would have been asked with some amusement, it was flat. Lifeless._

_"If you're hurt I want to see." She reached into the warmth of his jacket, finding his ribcage underneath the fine white dress shirt, and pressed with her fingers. "Are you hurt? Did you...was there an incident?" He shifted under her prying fingers, finally grasping her wrists and gently removing them._

_"I'm not hurt." He let go of her and stepped away, turning his back to her as he continued to fiddle with the cufflinks, this time without help._

_Now she was pissed. She would not be shut down like this, dismissed out of hand. Using more force in her voice, using a tone she would never dare to use unless it was of life-threatening importance, she demanded: "Then_ **why** _is there_ **blood** _on your_ **cufflink** _?"_

_He snapped. He spun around, something flashing in his face which sent real fear into her. She'd been excited by him many times, even felt trepidation. But she'd never actually been afraid. Then his voice thundered between them, making her jump. "_ **I did what needed to be done to protect you**! _"_

_Seconds ticked. She let it sink in, let the implication of what he'd done go through her, the thunderous rumble after the lightning strike._

_"Oh, Tom," she said, her voice very soft. "What did you do?"_

_The kid. That poor stupid kid who tried to..._

_"He tried to hurt you."_

_This riled her. "_ **Mug** _, Tom. He tried to mug me. And he_ **failed** _, I might add."_

_Tom crossed the room to her. He lifted her arm. The bruise was mostly faded and she'd covered it with foundation, but they both knew it still lingered there, faint._

_"The bruise was an_ **accident** _." She added the last word with particular spite. He'd told her not to use it again, but this time it was true. His face darkened, but she wasn't having any of it this time. She pulled her arm away from him and stepped back. "What did you DO?" she asked, angry._

_"You don't want to know."_

_She was so furious her nostrils were flaring as she took heaving breaths. And then the horror hit her. She looked down at her arm. If he hadn't bruised her, none of this would be happening. If she'd seen it sooner, she could have hid it. If she just had let his damn bodyguard go with her instead of arguing like a petulant child..._

_"You never have to worry about him, ever again."_

_She let out a sarcastic grunt. "I never worried about him in the first place! He was some scrawny, pathetic wreck! Did you even_ **look** _at him, Tom?"_

_"I looked at him, Rose, and all I saw was how he'd threatened you." His voice was so glacial, she could almost feel the cold brush against her cheek. It stopped her for a moment, made her jaw drop with astonishment. Was this what it had come to, now? She looked down, the shock making her dizzy. Was she one of his possessions, and if anyone so much as looked at her in a way he didn't like, he would punish them? What kind of love was that?_ _"How I could have lost you." She raised her eyes to see him soften, just a bit. Not as cold. He had to be reading her repulsion to him, had to know that this was not okay, she was not okay with any of this._

_"I looked at him and I saw red," he says in his deep, baritone growl. “Red that blinded me." Another step. "Red that splattered the walls."_

_She stepped back._

_"Red that soaked into my skin until it stopped." And he stopped, and something...she couldn't place it. Something flickers across his face. It's there and gone so fast she doesn't know. She knew him well enough to know that running away from him would upset him, very deeply. It's as close as she can get to hurting him. He had to have seen how upset she was, because his tone was different when he spoke again. "Look, I'll...I'll pay for the kid's funeral."_

_The words were like a fist._ **Funeral?** _The child was dead? She gaped, the breath leaving her and a cold rush blowing up her skin, leaving her feeling like a corpse. She staggered away from him, her hand going to the opals around her neck, trying to regain a foothold. This wasn't happening...she knew he had done bad things, but...murder? For a lousy purse and a bruise?_

_"All we would have lost," she said, her voice high pitched, tiny, and strained, "is a few credit cards, a cell phone and my ID. And he lost his life...for_ **that** _. Because of what_ **you** _were afraid of..." and her voice rises uncontrolled, going nearly into a shriek, "_ **How could you, Tom? How could you? _”_**

_He seemed totally stunned by her sudden burst, but he regrouped quickly. He stepped closer to her, but she shied away, defiant. "Oh, and in recompense, you'll pay to bury him.." Even she was surprised at the scorn in her voice. "How is that going to help his sister?"_

_He frowned, puzzled. "What?"_

_"The boy had a...a sister. He had to take care of her. He wasn't..." Everything converged on her and it choked her speech. If she continued, she was going to burst into tears and maybe that was what Tom deserved, he always went sort of nuts when she cried. But she couldn't let herself. Could. Not._

_"Then the sister will never want for anything again, in her life." His voice had softened but there was no trace of remorse in it. He was just trying to appease her. The thought turned her stomach._

_She cleared her throat, and looked him dead in the eye. "Yes. Because money always fixes everything, doesn't it?" She didn't wait for his reaction. She turned on her heel and left the room._

_He went to the event alone that night. Made up some story about how she wasn't feeling well, according to the few phone calls she got later from acquaintances calling to inquire about her._

_When he came home, she had moved into this room. Spent the first night this bed._

There are voices in the hallway outside her door. Rose hears both Hadley and Tom. There is a light, polite knock at the door, and in her state of tension this makes her jump. Her ears are rushing with blood and she can barely hear the voice that follows the knock. She tries to concentrate, still frozen at the edge of her bed. She feels her terror start to escalate, and then become a steady stream when she finally hears what Tom is saying.

“Rose! I know. You hear me, Rose? I know! I want to talk about Thomas William Hiddleston the Second!"


	13. Rage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

“Rose! I know. You hear me, Rose? I know!” He steps back, turning to address both Hadley and the unopened door. “I want to talk about Thomas William Hiddleston the Second.”

He waits as long as he is able, then raises his fist to bang against the door again. He doesn’t have to – the doorknob turns and the door shows just a bit of light from within. He expects it to fully open but it doesn’t. He has to press his hand to the wood and swing the door wide to reveal the room.

Rose has retreated back across the room.

Away from him.

She is standing by the wardrobe, rifling through the clothes held within. She darts her eyes from the clothes to him. Her fear makes him inwardly cringe. He can see her hands are shaking as she’s searching through the clothes.

Tom takes a step into the room. Then another. And another. He wants to storm over to her, demand answers. It takes effort to control the urge. It would be the wrong thing to do at this moment. The wrong message to send. Hadley has moved to stand in the doorway behind him. He needs to prove to Hadley – to himself – to Rose – that he is in control.

She’s found the thing she was looking for, a robe. She has it pulled from the hanger and in her hands when he speaks. “Rose.” When she looks up to meet his eyes he pauses, there is fear there. Fear of him. She had right to fear him. She had… Again he feels the surge of his anger and he tenses every muscle in his body to hold himself still.

He can hear Hadley shift behind him to better observe the situation and better position himself to be able to intervene if needed. Tom waits, standing stock still until she has the robe secured around her – the belt pulling the fabric tight. Then it is a waiting game. Who will break the silence first? To his eyes, Rose seems too frightened to begin, too afraid to ask what he wants to know.

_Perhaps if she has a clear view of Hadley she will stop trembling._ Tom adjusts where he stands in the room, the action also adding more distance between himself and Rose. He tries to will the words to her. _I will not harm you, Rose. I just need answers._

He unclenches his jaw. His voice comes through cool and calm. Years of practice come in handy in this moment. “Hadley is concerned about my presence, about my state of mind. Do you want me here?”

Rose keeps her eyes on Tom. He can see her evaluating him, trying to gauge him. She finally flicks her eyes to Hadley for her reply. "Hadley please wait in the hallway." Hadley nods to her and turns to leave and she adds, "Leave the door ajar."

Once it is just the pair of them alone in the room, Tom tries once again to question her. “Rose. When did you know?” Her hesitation in answering makes him clench his muscles again while he waits for her response. The anger will not net answers.

She flinches. “Two weeks.”

“Two. Weeks.” He hadn’t meant to growl it. There was no taking back the tone. She had known she was pregnant for _two weeks_ before she had left and had said nothing.

He shakes his head violently when she offers up further explanation. “I was two months along. I’m sure you know when it happened…”

“Two. Weeks.” The words come out how he intended this time, better reflecting the pain he is feeling. The carefully constructed mask slips to reveal the crumbling man beneath. She is witnessing the destruction of the passionate man who had once quoted lines of Shakespeare at will, merely to entertain her. He is desperate to shut her out but cannot seem to hold the stoic mask in place.

His torment draws her forward from the wardrobe. Her words are soft. “Oh, Tom.”

She is trying to comfort him? Now – after deliberately cutting him from her life. Running from him with their child still forming inside her, no less. He looks away from her to grasp at something else – something that doesn’t evoke so many conflicting emotions. “You named him,” he almost chokes over the words, “Thomas William…”

“Will.”

He considers the name. “Will.”

“He has your eyes.” She offers quietly.

He jerks his head to look at her again. He can’t bite back the anger behind his words. He knows Will’s eye color – it was one of the details in the birth record. “Why is this so easy for you?” He mimics her utterance, “He has your eyes.”

His anger flaring up makes her emotions surge as well. “You think any of this has been easy for me?” The tears start, but they run unheeded down her face. Occasionally, she swipes at them, or at her nose, or at her lips. “Every single day, Tom. Every day I was terrified. And worse, I was terrified and alone.”

“Alone.” He snorts, “Whose fault is that?”

“Mine.”

At least she was willing to admit that much.

“But yours as well. Those walls you built made it impossible to see you anymore, Tom. You were a man within his fortress and I got tired of fighting my way in.” She’s advancing on him in anger now. “What kind of father would you have been? Would you have comforted when he cried? Changed him when he was soiled? Fed him at three in the morning even though you were exhausted from the day before? How patient would you have been, watching him explore the world around him?”

It’s his turn to roar back at her, “I would’ve liked the chance to **_try_**!”

She only flinches slightly at his raised voice. “Try? Please. You were too far gone to try. Neither one of us was prepared to raise a child, but at least my heart hadn’t turned to stone!”

“I merely became the man I needed to be in order to succeed!” This is the same argument they'd had in the months before she left. The sentiment still annoyed him. It had all been for the job – a job she knew he was being groomed for from day one – and yet she still held it against him.

“ _Exactly_. There was you, in your world – and me, on the outside. I would see pieces of you, now and again, but for the most part I didn’t even know you anymore.” With every comment she’s taken another step towards him. They’re within an arm’s length of each other now.

He hasn’t budged from the spot where he rooted himself. Her proximity, the crying. It’s all grating at his nerves. The anger he thought he’d exhausted down in the study is finding a fresh foothold. He should leave. But he had come to talk to her. He will not leave without his answers. But it’s been too long since he stepped from behind the cool mask of the London Lord of Crime. This night is doomed to end badly.

It’s his forced immobility that is keeping him from erupting. If only she’d back away again. If only she’d stop _crying_. Perhaps if he focused more on her words. On the memories. She was right, they had started falling apart as a couple long before she had left. She never belonged in his world, but that hadn’t stopped him from trying to drag her into it. “The heart of the same man still beat beneath.”

She talks right through his uttered admission. “And then you would do something – insane – like beat a _child_ to death for giving me a bruise.”

He holds up his hands, “I can’t undo that, Rose. And I refuse to continue to argue that point.” He turns, finally stepping away from the spot he had grounded himself. “Where is Will?”

“Why.”

He flicks his eyebrows up. It takes effort to keep his voice even. “So I can tell Ethan where to go to _retrieve_ him.”

“No.” She has her arms folded across her chest.

Just another layer of defenses between the pair of them.

“No?”

“He’s safe, Tom.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose as though the whole thing was giving him a headache. “You don’t know that. We should bring him here.”

“He’s **_safe_**.”

When she repeats herself he looks up at her sharply. “My people found out about him.”

“ _About_ him. They didn’t _find_ him. You brought me here and look what good _that_ did.”

He clenches his jaw, speaking her name through gritted teeth, “Rose…”

His struggle is evident. Her words come quickly. “William is safe, Tom. He is with a friend. Someone I trust. She was in the support group I joined at the recommendation of my doctor.”

The words _support group_ make the corner of his mouth twitch but he manages to hold his tongue for the time being – concentrating on the ache his body is now feeling from being so tightly wound for so long.

“Margaret helped me get through it all. When I told her my situation, when I realized that Will and I were in danger, I asked her to help me make him disappear. She had a baby girl around the same time I had Will. We pulled a classic switch.”

In the early stages of their relationship he had taught her a few useful tricks, when she showed interest in learning. Those moments became infrequent as time had passed. He doesn’t bother returning the slight smile she gives him, merely deepens his scowl. “Where is Will?”

“She also had a teenage daughter. From her former marriage. She dressed up a doll to look like her child and left the real baby at home with her teenager.” She’s running her hands over the wide lapels of her robe alternately pulling at the ends of the sash, pretty much doing anything to keep her hands occupied while she speaks. “At the park we pulled a switch. I took home the doll, she took William. She sent William and her daughter on a flight that afternoon to see an uncle – and Margaret followed the day after with her baby.” Ruefully, Rose shakes her head, “I had to treat that damn doll as if it were William for a week before I could drop the charade. Make sure Margaret’s trail would be cold enough.”

“That’s quite the act.” He huffs out a hollow laugh, more at her – at her dance she’s trying to do to appease him. All this could have been avoided if she had just _stayed._

“I thought _you_ had sent them and I waited for you to show up at my door. Every single day, Tom. But then a month passed and it was obvious how heavily pregnant I was, and I knew it couldn’t be you because you never showed. I knew you would have taken me back at any given minute once you knew I was carrying our son, but knowing that just made my resolve that much stronger. I thought…I thought if I did come back, you’d welcome me with open arms long enough for me to give birth, and then…I don’t know.”

Tom waves his arm wide in his exasperation. “Oh, don’t stop now. You know _exactly_ what you thought I would do. Something dangerous. Something insane. Something criminal. Well? Go on then.” 

“I worried you were waiting until after he was born and were going to steal him! I knew the second you found out about Will how angry you would be at me. You would hate me for taking him away from you! I know how possessive you are, and the thought of a son would have made you _salivate_. That you’d get rid of me, and then I’d lose him.”

The more explanation she offers, the harder it is for Tom to feel anything but anger. The woman standing before him clearly thought he was no more than a monster to warn their child about. No – she had repeated the sentiment enough times in the past few minutes to make her feelings clear on that point – _her_ child.

“ _Of course,_ ” he slams his hand down on the dresser causing her to flinch, “because the _first thought_ to a criminal such as myself would be – I have an heir, now I have to _get rid of his mother_.” 

“I made a choice I didn’t think I could ever reverse," she shouts defensively. She rushes forward, voice falling and then rising again with emotion. "Every day, I’d feel the changes, and I’d think how you would have wanted to see them, how you would have wanted to be there to see how my body changed and grew. But then I’d wish someone would rub my feet or my back, and – I would think: Rosaline, don’t be foolish, Tom would never do that. That we were never…like that.”

He takes a step towards her. He feels no tenderness towards her in this moment. “No. Stone cold criminals don’t have the _capability_ to show such compassion. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to do everything in my power to ensure your comfort.”

The waves of anger that had left him feeling nearly spent are back crashing against his willpower. His study had paid the price for his anger – and this room had seen far too much of it in the past. The same thoughts that had sent him spiraling before are surfacing again. _Her swelling belly. The first kick. The memories regarding Will’s development which, in leaving, she had deprived him of._ The more she mentions them, dwells on the things he will never have the chance to experience now…

She's nearly sobbing. She sounds stopped up now, she’s been pushing out so much emotion that her sinuses have clogged. “There were so many times I would imagine your hand on my belly, feeling the baby move or kick. I cried so hard the first time he kicked and I couldn’t tell you.”

He snarls at her, “Couldn’t. You **_chose_** not to tell me. You **_chose_** to be alone. You **_chose to leave._** ” When she jumps at his tone and he takes another step forward, “Will you stop jumping at my every word?!” Even in this state the gentleman voices his opinion – _offer her your handkerchief_. If he can control his movements long enough to reach into his pocket and hand her the cloth to dry her eyes, perhaps this night can be salvaged yet.

The second he begins to reach into his jacket she takes a step back. Even after she sees what is in his hand she doesn’t relax her muscles. He crushes the white cloth within his fist before casting it aside. No – no tender act will happen tonight.

“I just took it one day at a time. I had enough money to hide, to pay anyone to keep quiet about me. I knew it wasn’t going to last forever but it was enough. And then I gave birth – I cried for days afterward... I love him so much, my little Will. I couldn’t look at any part of him and not think of you like a stabbing pain in my chest, but it was a torture I forced on myself again and again.”

It had been the wrong word to use. _Torture_. That’s all a man like him was good for _. Torture._ He hadn’t even been there and he had still caused her harm. He takes another step forward, and she takes another one back. “Then why even keep him, _your_ little Will?”

“Because I could see you in him, and I still love you.”

_Love. She **left**. That was not love._

When he scoffs she adds, “I know you don’t believe me. But the point is Will is _safe._ Sending him away killed something in me, and then having to get rid of everything of his to ensure he remained hidden just added to the pain... I just put it all in a big box and sent it to Goodwill. But he’s safe from this mess. From your world. From _you_!”

She shakes her head at the angry man looming over her, backing her towards the wall of the room. The rest of her words come out in a rush, as though finishing the thought might somehow exorcise the shared frustration. “Then your men showed up, put me on a private jet, and I was brought to that fucking carpark, and now we’re _here_.”

“Yes, Rose. My men. My fault. My world.” His steps are coming faster now along with his forceful words. They’re halfway to the wall from where they had started and he doesn’t show signs of stopping.

“My empire that provided the funds to keep you hidden for two years. My connections that first heard the rumors that your life was in danger. My people that turned the world over to discover you and make sure you could be brought here, to be protected.” He has stalked her back across the room. The wall blocks any escape from his rage.

“ _Don’t_ toss your words at me, your _love_!” His hand ends up pressing against her clavicle, pushing into her throat as he pins her against the wall and roars. “I don’t have time for the _sentiment!_ ”

As quickly as his anger had bubbled up and out of him, recognition and horror as to what he’s done washes through him. He backpedals, staring at the palms of his hands in disbelief.

In her absence he truly had become a monster. He didn’t harm her physically, but he allowed the circumstances to present themselves – the threat had been there. He can’t bring himself to look at her face. He doesn’t want the memory of her repulsion, her fear, her hate imprinted on his brain.

The criminal in him is jeering his reaction. He has fed his violent streak so much over the past two years, of course he hadn’t been able to keep it in check. He must have passed Hadley in his rush to leave the room. He needs something to calm him, something positive. There is only one thing he can think of at the moment – and it is locked away in the safe in his study. At least it had survived his temper.

The room is as he left it, completely in shambles. He stumbles through shards of broken furniture and glass, sliding on the torn pages that litter the floor. There is a mess to sweep aside with a broad swipe of his hand before he can kneel before the heavy metal cube that had been hidden behind a panel before his maelstrom had occurred. Just connecting with the cold surface helps him focus. His fingers spin the dial from muscle memory and he hesitates as the door pops open – checking his emotions. He is worn out now. There is no anger left, hardly any energy left at all.

It is safe to retrieve it. He glances at the small box that sits next to his desired target. No, that will not provide him with what he needs. The necklace. Her necklace.

He flips the box open and pulls the long strand from its container. Just feeling the weight of the stones in his hands provides some small relief. Relief followed by a wave of guilt so massive he falls from his knees down to sit next to the safe and press his back against the mostly destroyed bookshelf behind him. 


	14. Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rose]

"I don't have time for the _sentiment_!"

And then his hands are on her.

Until that moment, truly, Rose never actually believed that Tom would hurt her. She didn't realize this, though. She had fear, she had doubt, she had an overactive imagination made worse by the things she knew Tom had done.

But until now, with his right hand pushing into her sternum at the base of her throat, thumb pressed against her clavicle, and the other hand grasping her shoulder, she had never once truly believed.

She is already so far back against the wall there is nowhere to move. His face fills her vision. She did not honestly believe she actually had the power to push him so far, cause him so much pain. But it is there, plain and unavoidable, no more denial could possibly fit into the small cramped space where Tom is pressing her and she cannot move.

She can only submit.

Something inside gives way and she goes limp, not resisting. Her eyes flutter shut, but immediately fly open when the pressure disappears. Tom looks utterly broken, and for the first time she can see his pain so clearly it's like looking at her own.

She did this to him. This is her fault.

The guilt doesn't make sense to her later but right now it's very real and she wants nothing more but to grab Tom and pull him back to her and comfort him. The irrational desire never makes it anywhere near the surface because Tom won't look at her as he turns and practically runs from the room.

She slides down, but her legs bend and instead of going back against the wall she goes forward on her knees, a puppet with cut strings. The tears have flowed nearly non-stop and they drip from her chin onto her lap. Her arms cross over her chest and she grasps the only thing she has -- herself. She feels more than hears the low wail that breaks loose from her chest, and in that moment, she wants to be swallowed, to die, to disappear, anything to make this feeling stop.

Someone is with her, but she knows it isn't Tom so she doesn't even raise her head to look. From a great distance she is being asked if she is hurt but she doesn't care to reply. And then close to her ear she hears a familiar and comforting Scottish lilt asking her if she can stand up, and mindlessly she obeys.

Unsteady, she gets to her feet, and strong arms support her to get her to bed. One arm around her waist and another around her shoulders -- the comfort is a lifeline in the despairing sea in which she is drowning and without thinking she throws her arms around a pair of shoulders that are nearly level with hers.

Poor Hadley has to stand and accept her hugging him for nearly five minutes before he is able to gently disengage her and set her on the bed. To his credit he doesn't squirm in discomfort, just patiently waits for the moment to pass.

She sits at the edge, her eyes opening to a blurry world around her, and Hadley seems to be satisfied that she is undamaged on the outside because he lets go of her and steps back.

"He hates me," she whispers.

Something fills her hand -- some kind of towel. She stares down at it, uncomprehending, not aware that her face is soaked in a combination of spit, tears and snot. After a moment of watching her stare at it, Hadley patiently kneels down, takes the towel and wipes her face.

"He doesn't, miss," Hadley murmurs to her gently.

The words make her jerk. She is finally able to focus on him, and realizes what she has been doing, how she has totally fallen apart. Reaching up she grasps the towel from him, although her face is mostly dry.

"That will be all, Hadley, thank you," she manages, although her voice is hoarse. He looks a bit surprised, but nods, turns and leaves. He shuts the door behind him.

Rose throws herself back on the bed and turns away, curling up into a ball. The most painful thing about all of this...why did she tell him she loved him? That was a stupid thing to say. If she had wanted him to have a weapon against her she'd surely just handed it over, with instructions.

Yet her heart is sliced in two -- one half shaking its head at her and telling her to get it together, she has to stay strong, and the other wailing and gnashing its teeth, berating her for being the architect of her own personal hell.

Because it was true. She does love him. She loves him still. It was never about her feelings for him, those were the only things Tom had ever had on his side when it came to her choice on whether to stay or go. It was her heart that had made her drag her feet, made her turn a blind eye to her conscience when it nagged at her.

Although over time that side had grown weaker and had less influence, today it roars with a renewed strength. The guilt of seeing how much she had hurt Tom feeds it. Tom's words feed it -- she _left_ him. She took away his chance to be a father. She took away his chance to grow as she had grown, to love as she had loved.

She did this all of her own free will.

Her heart continues to wail, bereft. The wound is deep and it bleeds. Nothing she can think can close it. It throbs mercilessly, throwing his face into her memory, the expression of his pain, his anger, his heartbreak. Things she never thought she would ever see but she desperately had wanted to. She wanted to know that he felt for her. She wanted to know that he _loved_ her.

But _did_ he love her?

Now, looking back, she knows how absurd her thoughts were -- pregnancy hormones had to share at least some of the blame for thinking Tom would _get rid_ of her. If she had come back, he may have been angry, he may have sulked, but he would never have done what she did. He would never have taken her child away from her.

Yet she had taken his child from him. Did that make her _worse_?

Rose grips the pillows, the blankets, wanting to hide under them, wanting the mattress to open and shroud her, as if it would protect her.

_He loves you. As much as he knows how to love, he loves you_.

She wants to believe it, but it hadn't been...good enough. Nothing had ever been good enough, not when dealing with a man who was snapping apart at the seams, who did dark and horrible things claiming it was for her. To protect her, to keep her with him.

_They sat at the dinner table. It had been two weeks since she had left their shared room and taken up residence in the next best one, used formerly as a guest room._

_She expected Tom to say something. She half expected him to storm into her room when he returned from the event and demand that she come to their bed. To tell her she was being ridiculous (that was his favorite word for her when she was upset about something), and that she should give up this nonsense immediately._

_But no, Tom did not do any of those things. The first week he spent letting her "cool off." Maybe he thought she would come to her senses. But this wasn't a spat about something small._

_This was murder. He had murdered someone. In her name._

_How can she forgive that? She doesn't have the power._

_The second week, Tom spent making small attempts to engage her. She made it difficult, avoiding him at every turn. She spent extra time at the office. She felt no joy in her work, hasn't for some time. The things she did were almost...concluding. As if she were preparing to wrap everything up and move on._

_The thought had danced in her brain for a few days now and she wanted to say something. He was going to think it was all coming from this "misunderstanding" they were having, and not take her seriously. It almost didn't matter._

_At the end of the second week, Tom had interrupted her morning routine to insist she come home early so that they can have a meal together. "We live here together," he said in his plain, authoritarian way. "We've barely spoken in two weeks. This has to end, Rose. Tonight, you will come home and we will have dinner together."_

_Of course he hadn't asked her. He knew she would say no, but when he put things like that, she knew better than to defy him. And anyway, it would give her the opportunity she really wanted. Because she had to come to a decision._

_Tom had made an effort, Rose realized as she sat down at the long table. He wanted her to sit beside him, on his right, but she insisted on the foot of the table. It was only ten feet or so. The servants promptly moved her cutlery and glass to the end where she sat, as she had no intention of moving._

_The filet was deep red in the middle just as she liked it. The vegetables were flawlessly steamed and seasoned. The yams were as sweet as candy. The wine went perfect with everything, and she had already finished a glass before she was a quarter through her meal._

_The silence between them was taut. Tom attempted to make small talk but Rose refused to give in, giving him only one word answers. She felt more than saw the looks he passed her across the table, but finally her stomach was too clenched and she couldn't endure another moment. She said the four words no other-half of a couple ever wants to hear._

_"We need to talk."_

_Tom didn't answer at first, continuing to eat his steak. In true British fashion he never put down his knife and fork once having picked them up, but Rose was raised mostly in America and had never learned this habit, so she abruptly let go of her silverware, causing a loud clank. Tom arched an eye brow in surprise. "Are you finished so soon?"_

_"We need to talk," she said again, more forcefully._

_"Hm." It's more of a grunt than a word. "I'm listening."_

_"I think we both need to accept the fact that things are not working between us any more," she said, going the plain, rational path. She didn't put the blame on him, even though she wanted to, even though it was the right place for it. But she knew that would only make him dig in his heels, and there is no budging Tom once he has dug in his heels._

_But she failed to realize that Tom came to this dinner with heels firmly planted, and his next word are like a slap in her face._

_"This is not a conversation we are going to have," he says, a force in his tone that made her eyes widen. His eyes had taken on a hardness and his jaw was rigid and set. "Ever." The word came with the finality of a judge slamming his gavel. Tom went back to his dinner._

_For a long minute, she couldn't think. Tom had just shut her down, without any hope for appeal. This was not the first time he'd ever used this tone of voice with her -- it had, in fact, become much more common over the last year, especially, than she ever wanted to admit._

_Until now._

_She stared at him as he continued to eat, and the thought of how she just shut her down so utterly and completely makes her grip the edge of the table in rage until her hands are white and numb. But it was not until his face softened and he looked just the tiniest big smug that she felt that bubble burst in her chest._

_There was a different Rose who stood up. A different Rose who swept her hand across the table, sending her dish, glass, silverware, flying off the table and scattering across the floor. Tom looked up, and she felt victory surge in her at the utter astonishment on his features, his eyes as wide as hers had been moments ago._

_She leaned forward and placed both hands palms down on either side of the table. Her voice, when it broke from her throat, was the loudest, angriest tone she had ever used on anyone in her life._

_" **How fucking dare you speak to me that way**?!" she screams at him. "I am your equal! I am not some child to be dismissed as if I'm being unruly!" Her words bounced off the high walls around her, startling everyone, making the servants jump, making the cooks in the kitchen drop their utensils and run either for shelter or to watch the apocalypse first hand. "You will not speak to me that way, not now or ever again, **do you understand**?!"_

_Tom, for his part, stilled. Preternaturally stilled. He stared at her, as if never having seen her before. His eyes were still slightly wide, every muscle in his face tightly drawn, his shoulders stiff, his breathing slowed. Gently, oh so gently, he placed down his knife and fork in their proper places on either side of his plate. And then, oh so gracefully, he got to his feet._

_The minute that happened, Rose no longer cared what came next. She did not care what he was going to say; she was not afraid of him. The worst he could do to her was kill her, and at that moment she would gladly have died than stayed in his company another second._

_"I'm leaving," she declared, her voice lower but still carrying the same force. It was the exact same tone he had used on her not minutes before. To punctuate her sentence, she spun on her heel and left the room._

_It took only a few seconds for Rose to realize he was following her. She wanted to look behind her but didn't dare -- the momentary rush of catching him off guard had passed and fear was leaking back in through the gaps. She didn't reach the stairs before she felt his hand close around her upper arm and pull her back -- not angrily, not harshly, not roughly, but with a firmness that prevented her from taking another step._

_She almost stumbled into him as he spun her around, but he caught her easily, one arm going across her back to grip her opposite shoulder and pull her tight against his chest. The other hand was under her chin, fingers closing firmly but delicately there to pull her gaze up to his._

_When she looked up into his face, she wasn't sure what she was seeing. He stared at her with such intensity, but it was not a gaze to fill her with fear. Was it...desperation? Longing? Tenderness? Maybe a mix of all or maybe none -- Tom was the master of his expressions and never let her or anyone see what he didn't want them to see._

_"You..," he started, and his voice was rough, and maybe if he had spoken a bit more, she might have been able to discern the emotions in it, but they, too, were dismissed with a clearing of his throat. "You can't leave me, Rose," he said, and it was gentle but unyielding, a statement that could not be argued. "You just can't."_

_"I will not stay here," she said, her voice hoarse from her earlier screaming. It too held the same steady, unrelenting tone. "Are you going to keep me a prisoner? Is that what I am to become?" Her voice broke a bit, against her will, at the end, the fear now starting to have its way._

_"No, of course not," he breathed, his arm moving from holding her so tightly so that he could smooth both hands down her shoulders and arms. "You wish to leave. I understand. I will arrange for the jet to...to take you to your parents." Rose squinted one eye a bit, scrutinizing him. Was he reaching? It was rare to see him thrown like this. She must have really rattled him. She felt an odd kind of satisfaction in it. "You haven't visited them since Christmas," he went on, his voice steadying. "A week, two? Get some distance on this matter, clear your head. When you return, we will...talk. Again."_

_His hands went to either side of her face and he kissed her forehead, his lips lingering on her skin. She felt a shudder of breath from him against the skin of her face, the smell of the wine brushing her nose. She shut her eyes against the fluttering in her heart, the knowledge that she pushed him hard enough to make him show some part of his hand. He had said they would "talk." She wanted to say that he had already made it clear that breaking up was an impossibility, but the half-victory of being allowed to leave seemed to satisfy the frenzy in her. Besides, she had been planning to go to her parents, anyway. It was almost like winning._

_Almost._

Rose finally stops crying. The towel is damp and clutched to her chest. Soft, airy sobs shake her every now and again but otherwise the storm has passed.

He didn't leave her a choice, ultimately. The war between her emotions and her conscience had been escalating and when her conscience finally won, he hadn't given her a choice except to do it the way she had. Escaping like a convict. Leaving no clue as to where she'd gone.

But her poor heart, which had been beaten so severely in that fight, berates her now. Maybe if she had stayed, maybe the baby would have changed him; it certainly changed her. Maybe he would have been more affectionate, more reasonable, more like he'd been when they were first together. That Tom had barely been able to keep his hands from her, always touching her with sweetness and affection, never letting her doubt his feelings, even if he had a hard time expressing them with words. Maybe seeing her swell from the life he had helped make inside her would have brought that man back.

But no, her conscience reminds her. Those were not the reasons she left. Those were things that had pushed her into seeing a much worse picture. A man so hardened he had no respect for human life. Was his son going to be made as hard as himself? That was something she couldn't allow. She may be damned by her choices, but she was not going to allow those choices to damn her innocent son as well.

With a heavy sigh, Rose sits up. Regardless of the past, now there is the future. She is here -- Tom brought her here to protect her. And for his pains, he has been hurt the more. Maybe he deserves it, but she cannot help the urge in her to make some kind of peace with him, to comfort him. Right now, he is the only thing she has.


	15. Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

Tom has one of his legs pulled up so that he can rest his elbow atop his knee, thereby providing support for his head. He’s carved a space for himself amongst the mess on the floor. Paperwork from the week is mixed with shards of broken glass, splinters of wood, torn pages with fractions of illuminated artwork or writing forevermore shorn from the rest.

The accumulated losses from his unchecked temper would consume a chunk of his personal funds – assuming he bothered to replace everything.

At least he had lost control at home, in his study, where the act could be hidden away from prying eyes. The outburst hadn’t taken place in his office on the estate – out on display for all the world. His staff wouldn’t dare mention the episode beyond the walls of his home. It would not become a rumor weakening the image he’s worked so hard to build. It was a challenge to constantly appear unruffled, cold, above it all.

Sparring with Hadley provided a controlled outlet for Tom’s bottled emotions. It had been an ever increasing ritual – usually taking place in the morning before facing the day. And then on particularly trying days they’d meet again in the evening. The bridge between the two men didn’t include conversation. The comradeship extended to the training, the trust that neither would push the fight further than needed, Tom still the master of the household, Hadley still the employee.

A single whispered observation of weakness in character would shake the challengers to Tom’s position of power out of the woodwork by the dozen. For now they watched and waited – fearing his swift, ruthless application of justice.

The stories that circulated regarding his nature had grown along with the monster held within him. He would have you dismembered if you displeased him, he’d demand your debt increase tenfold if you fell behind in what you owed. And it had all started with the kid – the kid that had tried to harm his Rose.

_He had impatiently asked for progress reports every thirty minutes until his men responded with a different status. They’d found the teen – now what?_

_“Bring him to me.” He could feel the dark thing within him testing the chains that kept it bound. He would have to navigate this night carefully._

_They’d pulled the boy from the trunk of their car under his close supervision. The teen’s ill-fitting clothes only amplified his lanky form. The kid, for really that’s what he was in Tom’s eyes, was clearly frightened. Good. He attempted to mug the wrong woman. Consequences. Every action has a reaction._

_Tom kept his arms crossed, standing a calculated distance apart._

_Then the kid dared to be glib._

_Tom had stepped forward and swung his hand, connecting with the youth's face. The boy hadn't expected him to react, shocked that a man dressed in such an expensive suit would do such a thing._

_The first blow felt good – and then the inner howling beast rattled the chains that only just kept it at bay. It was a warning. **Step back again. Don’t feed the beast.**_

_He’d given the kid a bloody lip. The kid hadn’t let the shock of the moment break him. He’d held his head high, defiant. Tom had misjudged the scrawny being before him. He had spunk. He reminded him of -_

_The kid then spit blood and saliva into his face._

_And the monster breaks free._

_The next punch and the one that follows don’t sate the rage. His suit jacket will need repeated cleanings before it will be wearable once more. Tom wipes the spittle from his face with the back of his hand. “The last man who spit on me,” he growls out while slipping out of his jacket, “…now rests at the bottom of the Thames.” He tosses his jacket to one of his men, who catches it stiffly._

_The monster growls with glee. He can move with a little less resistance now._

_Tom’s next blow rocks the chair that the kid had been placed in. The kid was already so disoriented he hadn’t tried to block the blow, rather clung to the seat to keep from being thrown to the floor. The men that had brought the teen to Tom, that up until that point had been holding the chair steady and holding the kid in place, step towards the outside of the room to avoid Tom’s anger._

_These actions were his alone – there was no one else to blame for the outcome but himself._

_He took his time removing his cufflinks, placing them with care on the countertop nearby. Then he turned his attention to his sleeves. The white shirt would need to be replaced. It was already speckled with red._

The velvet box that had contained the necklace has been cast aside, its contents the thing that Tom was really after. He didn’t even bother to close the lid once he’d gotten the opals in his hand to try to fight the memories – just let the box slide from where it had been perched atop his outstretched leg to fall to the floor beside him. He’s sat there long enough – gripped the looped strand of round stones long enough – to start to trigger the color change of the stone via the heat of his touch.  

His touch – his hands – the hands that had – he can feel himself start to unravel again and forces his eyes elsewhere.

The dented mantel. He’d need to replace the paneling. And the door. And most of the furniture. Why not massively overhaul the room while repairs were being made? Perhaps the entire wing of the house? All the paperwork that had been scattered could be reorganized – in a hidden filing cabinet – the way he had tucked the television and the safe behind false panels.

Cataloguing helps to steady him once more, helps him to disconnect with the emotions that refuse to level out. He clenches the stones in his hand. The job. It was always about the job these days. This was the life he’d allowed himself, the man he had become.

It hadn’t always been this way. Once there had been time for romance. For laughter. For dancing.

For heartbreak.

Rage swells within him again. He growls and hurls the necklace across the room. The moment the stones leave his hand he wishes they hadn’t. The necklace clatters to the floor behind one of the larger remnants of the guest chair. If it had chipped or broken he’d add it to the innumerous things he’d never forgive himself for… things he’d mostly kept from Rose. She had been the light to his increasingly dark life. Every time he shared something, that light dimmed – and then she’d removed it entirely.

Her words still rung in his ears from when he had finally admitted to her what had happened to the kid. _“How could you, Tom? **How could you?** ” _Had she considered for even a moment that he had been shaken by the events as well? Of course not. He was Thomas William Hiddleston – impervious to such things. She had punished him for it every day until she left.

He’d held true to his word regarding the sister, the kid’s only family. She had never been in want of anything ever since that day. Tom had paid for the funeral for the kid, as promised, and then gone on to ensure that the sister had gotten into the best school that money could buy. Housing would be next, once she graduated. Her future would be secure via her anonymous benefactor.

Again he can hear the scorn in Rose’s imagined reply in his head. “ _Yes. Because money always fixes everything, doesn’t it?"_

She’d accepted his money for her charity, though. He can see the corner of the ledger where he daily crunched numbers. Her charity was thriving. She might be happy to learn of that. He’d kept watch over her second in command for the past two years, careful not to intervene more than was absolutely necessary. She probably would have preferred that he not monitor its status at all – but, he had reasoned, no one else would have known the wishes of the founder quite so well. He worried that her second in command might not devote such attention to every detail… With his heel he knocks the ledger out of view. He can’t stop the memories bouncing around in his head but he can remove the visual cues.

He rests his forehead on his knee and closes his eyes. He should get up, perhaps stumble to his room and try to sleep. Or settle into his desk chair and try to source out the threat that had instigated this night from hell.

Remove the threat. Return things to normal. Send his Rose back to her Will. Perhaps provide for them, if she’ll allow it. Resume the mantel of Crime Lord of London.

Someone has come to bear witness to the ruins. Tom barely lifts his head to view the approaching figure.

Rose.

There’s no hiding the state of the room from her, not now. He should have locked the door.

He is too weary to attempt to build back any sort of wall between them to hide the destruction this night has caused. Sleep is required before he can resettle his mask.

His eyes flick to the hopefully-hidden-from-view location of her opal necklace. She’ll have to walk right past it if she continues on her path to him. The necklace never should have left its box. He should have kept it locked away in the safe. Safe from him.

“Go back to your room, Rose.” His words come out flat but the command is still clear. _Leave me be – I left your room **for a reason**._

She doesn’t listen. While she takes in the condition of his study Tom leans his head back against the wall that supports him. What she must think of him, now. In these few hours while he has been in her presence he has seemingly gone out of his way to reinforce every fear, every doubt she ever held regarding his nature.

She’s almost past where he approximates the necklace to have landed. The stutter in her step betrays the precise moment that she spots her opals. Why hadn’t he just left them hidden away in the safe? His eyes track her every movement as she stoops to pluck the strand from the floor. He sees confusion, anger, pain, and worst of all – pity, the next time she looks at him.

At least, at this distance, the opals appear undamaged. They are still glowing brightly from the extended time he’d had them clutched in his hands.

He doesn’t move as she draws steadily closer. He doesn’t have it in him to move at the moment, truth be told. So he sits, watches, waits.

He doesn’t flinch away from her when she kneels down and touches his knee. He wants to shy away from her – but he also craves the gentle contact. It’s the first that she has initiated since stepping off the elevator in the parking garage.

_She’s here, my Rose. But I am not the man she knew. I’m a danger to her. I’m dangerous._

A glance at the window tells him it is still early in the morning. He clears his throat to speak. “Give the staff a few more hours to sleep – then we’ll move you somewhere secure. Will as well, so I _know_ the pair of you are safe.” She doesn’t jerk away when he briefly rests his hand on top of hers. “Take,” he swallows, “…pack as much as you want this time.” It’s hard to continue looking at her but he’s determined to memorize every detail of her features while he can.

“Why send me away after going through all the trouble of bringing me here?” she says as small frown lines appear between her eyebrows.

“To keep you safe. Safe from others. Safe from me.” He pauses, trying to work his way through admitting so much to her. “This man – the man that I have become – he frightens me, Rose.” He removes his hand from hers before continuing. “Despite my efforts I’m not always in control of my temper. I cannot… I will not allow you to pay the price for that.”

_It had been close tonight. Too close._

Once she removes her hand he rests his arm on his knee and lets his head drop forward to rest on his forearm. He’ll wait her out, sitting here on the floor. She’ll grow tired and go back to bed and leave him to settle himself again. He hears the familiar deep creak of the box that has held her opals. She’s cleaning up his mess. Putting things back where they belong. Some things cannot be undone, though.

Then comes the unfamiliar smaller creak of the box he never dared open. He looks up quickly, stunned that he’d forgotten what lay taunting him in the safe these past few years. He can’t find his voice immediately. It’s the voice in his head that rasps:

_Please don’t. Put it away._

Her question is near a whisper when she locks her hazel eyes on his, “When?”

He refuses to look down at the thing she holds in her hands. At least the lid of the box is blocking his view of the opal and diamond ring. “What does it matter?”

“When, Tom?” She settles back onto the floor, bringing herself and the ring closer to him. She is kneeling between his legs just about even with his kneecap on his outstretched leg. Close enough to reach out and touch her again if he dared.

Tom sighs. The knowledge will only cause more pain but everything else is coming out in the open tonight. Why not this too? “Before you went to visit your parents. Before any of the fights. We’d been talking one night – in here – one of the last times I can remember sitting on the sofa holding you in my arms and not feeling resistance there, from either one of us.”

He can see her trying to sift through her memories, find the correct moment. It requires more explanation than what he has offered so far. “It was a mundane conversation. Just sharing the day. Nothing about marriage, not that night, though it was on my mind. I remember looking down at your hands and thinking how small they were while held within mine. I went out the next day and ordered the ring…”

He clears his throat and finally flicks his eyes down to the small velvet box Rose has a death grip on. He’d agonized over the setting. For Rose? Every detail needed to be perfect. An opal as the focal point – of course – and diamonds were necessary, too. What sort of engagement ring didn’t have diamonds? Was it too much? He’d tried to pick stones that wouldn’t overwhelm her hand. He could still remember every detail regarding the ring vividly, though he hadn’t opened the box in two years. “Do – do you like it?”

A gentle smile graces her lips and then she looks back down at the box. A moment passes before she sighs, “Oh Tom, you always have to do things big.”

Her reply draws as bright a smile as he can wearily muster. Maybe it’s the room that pulls the quote to mind, maybe it’s the memories of reading play after play with her. Maybe it’s the moment of doubt that had gripped his heart between her smile and the sighed words. He’s too tired to analyze further, instead speaking softly to her:

_“Forty thousand brothers_  
Could not, with all their quantity of love,  
Make up my sum.”

He catches her in his arms when she leans forward to settle against his chest. He can feel her shake out a sob. Or a laugh. He’s not quite sure which, immediately followed by her words:

_“Perdition catch my soul,_  
But I do love thee! And when I love thee not,  
Chaos is come again.”

Shakespeare in response to his Shakespeare – Othello to his lines from Hamlet. He tilts his head down towards the top of her head and inhales deeply. What is left of the scent of her shampoo is combined with the smell of the linens from her bed. He tries to differentiate every olfactory note, committing it all to memory.

He closes his eyes. No more talking. His body is demanding a few hours rest.


	16. The Charity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rose]

The last time she was in this study, was when she had come home from her parents in California. They lived on the coast, in Monterey. They were happy to see her, even at short notice. Her father was retired, at the early age of 61, and her mother was still active at this and that, never really showing any particular interest in any one career but preferring to be a jack of all trades. It broke her heart when she arrived and realized she could take little comfort in them. It was one thing to enjoy their presence, but she could say nothing of her troubles, other than "things aren't going well between me and Tom." Her father had never really liked Tom, not from the beginning, but he was unwilling to isolate his daughter for her choices, and knew that children had to make their own mistakes. James would make a light comment, something along the lines of, "When is that boy going to make you an honest woman?" and she would just smile, sadly, not answering.

_She had killed a bottle of Riesling on the first half of the plane, then dozed off. When she woke up she was fuzzy headed and miserable, and dehydrated. The flight attendants had very kindly brewed a batch of her favorite strawberry hibiscus iced tea -- iced tea was not common in the UK, it was an American habit she never could kick -- and while this helped, it did not heal._

_She had missed Tom, she realized. Missed him terribly. Her feelings for him hadn't been diminished by this event, only turned against her. Her love felt like an infection, a virus she couldn't shake. By the time she made it home, she sank into a gloomy silence, broken by the sight of a familiar car in the drive._

_Tom's white Jag gleamed in the early evening sun. He wasn't supposed to be home. She had deliberately picked this day to return because she knew he wouldn't be here, he would be doing something important for Ben -- and now any mention of either Ben or Mark only made her skin crawl, knowing they were only pulling Tom deeper into the pit._

_Rose entered the house and immediately looked for someone to ask. It was Hadley who appeared, seeing to the transport of her luggage from the car._

_"Welcome home, miss," he greeted her warmly._

_She nodded. "Was Tom picked up in the helicopter? I saw his car in the drive."_

_"No, miss. He's been home all day."_

_It took a second to absorb this information. Had the day been marked wrong? No, that calendar had been prepared a month ago, before their disagreement, before she left. Tom always entered his appointments himself, as she did, so that their calendars would sync._

_"And where is he now?" she asked slowly._

_"In his study, miss. He asked if you would join him when you returned."_

**Asked.** _He asked. She spoke Tom-language very well, and if it had been a command, he would have said for her to join him when she arrived. And Hadley knew better than to reword Tom's sentences._

_She went to the study. She knocked lightly, heard him say, "Come!" and opened the door. He was behind the desk, leaning back in the chair, a white hard-bound book on his lap. His eyes were on her the second she was in the room, and he gave her a welcoming, closed-mouth smile. "Hello, Rose," he said, closing the book._

_She nodded, feeling stiff and uncomfortable. She had woken up on the plane with an awful crick in her neck and this wasn't helping her mood. He shouldn't be acting like she was away on some business trip and he was welcoming her home. She had tried to leave him. Their separation was arranged._

_"Come see this, I made a few purchases while you were gone." His tone was eager, one he reserved for some Shakespearian find. She stepped closer to the desk and gazed at the white hardbound book, but he motioned for her to come around and see the inside. Reluctantly, she did, not particularly caring what the hell he'd bought. It had been weeks even before their fight that they had shared anything Shakespeare related, weeks since an intimate conversation and any tenderness exchanged._

_"I know it doesn't look like much from the outside, but I thought you would like these stencils." It was a copy of_ **Much Ado** _, over an inch thick, with artwork which she did rather like at first glance. He pulled the book open to some blue, then green, then orange colored pages, each one a stencil that layered on top of the next to form a more complex picture._

_"They had this one,_ **Hamlet** _and_ **Macbeth** _," he said, his eyes shining a bit like they used to. "But I knew you would like this one,_ **Much Ado** _was always one of your favorites."_

_Rose stepped closer to the desk. The stencils were quite beautiful, and her fingers grazed over them, lifting up the layers to see the individual pictures and then putting them back together. She saw Tom roll the chair away to give her a better view, but then realized she couldn't see him anymore in her peripheral vision, and when she turned, she saw he was right behind her, his knees spread wide in his typical fashion, one knee on either side of her, effectively trapping her against the desk._

_Her heart gave a few erratic beats at this predicament. He gazed at her with what could only be described as with a mischievous air. The smile quirked at his lips but didn't creep all the way across his face. His gaze...it was familiar, and intimate._

_His long fingers tapped his right thigh. It was subtle enough, but combined with that look, she knew perfectly well what he wanted. He wanted her on his lap. It was an invitation, and he didn't look like he was going to take no for an answer._

_She hesitated. Being close to him was dangerous. Being close to him would give him an advantage. So many times she had sat in his lap, either across him like a child on Santa's lap, or on one of his thighs, her legs dangling between his, his arm around her hips, holding her steady._

_Rose leaned far back against the desk. It was low enough so that if she wanted to, she could sit on it. The thought of actually sitting back and throwing her legs over his knee to jump away occurred to her, but his knee was not all the way against the heavy wood, and she was able to slip her feet through the small opening, turning just a little to gain more space. She landed on the other side of him, ignoring his solemn glare, and made her way to the couch._

_The couch presented more problems, though. If she sat in the middle, he would sit next to her. But if she sat in the corner, he would definitely sit in the middle, and she would be pinned. But at least sitting in the corner was not a direct invitation for him to sit beside her, so she had no choice but to take it, making sure not to go too deep, leaving herself some room to scoot if necessary. And she sat close to the edge, not leaning back, making herself comfortable._

_She caught the tail end of his glare, but it passed quickly. Just as she predicted, he got up and came over and sat in the middle of the couch, leaning back all the way, splaying his arms wide on either side along the back edge. Not touching her, but ready to should the invitation present itself._

_"So how was your trip?" he asked conversationally. She did not look at him, but kept her eyes ahead._

_"It was fine," she said. Giving him nothing, yet._

_Tom sighed. "You're still cross with me, I see."_

_This got her to finally look over at him. She said nothing, though, merely looked at him._

_"Did you...mention our difficulties to your parents?" he asked, and there was a look on his face she didn't like, one that made her stomach roll._

_"Of course not," she replied curtly. "They know we aren't getting along, but no details."_

_"Good," he murmured, then gave a rather bitter sounding chuckle. "That could hardly have been enough for your father, though. I know he doesn't like me."_

_She huffed and looked away. "It was easy enough to fix. He thinks you should have married me years ago."_

_It was a bold move. The word "married" had not passed between them in two years. Rose had given up any hope of that on their third anniversary and no proposal had come. She kept her hopes quietly to herself, only now thanking her lucky stars that they weren't married, it would make leaving him that much harder. And her previous plan...she shuddered at the thought. God forbid they should have children now. It would only make things worse._

_Gently, Tom reached forward and his fingers began softly fiddling with the loose strands of her hair that hung down her back._

_"I know we talked about getting married," he said softly. "It's been a while."_

_"Yes," she murmured, not sure where he was going. She turned to look at him again, and realized this was making the crick in her neck worse. She shifted her position so her back was against the heavy arm of the couch, her legs sliding over and her knee pressing against his, just a little. This also effectively pulled her hair from his grasp._

_He raised his eyes to hers, and there was something there that stabbed at her heart. "I should have married you years ago, though. Your father is right."_

_She just stared, holding her breath for his next words._

_"Is it too late for that now?" he asks, very softly this time, his voice just a few notches above a whisper._

_She let out her breath in a sigh. Then she looked away, afraid of both answers._

_"Rose," he calmly asked, his whole body now turned to her, his right hand going to her knee, pressed against his, running his fingers over it in what could only be described as a loving caress, "have your feelings for me changed?"_

_She fought the tears that threatened. She couldn't lie to him. Especially not at this range. She looked down at her hands, and said very softly, "No."_

_"Neither have mine." He took her hand with his left one and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm. He hadn't shaved that day, and his stubble scratched her fingers, making her skin tingle. His hand closed around her wrist, holding it firmly. This move pulled her a bit toward him, back into the corner of the couch. His eyes were so bright and blue, she couldn't look away. This was the man she met so long ago, tender and affectionate, leaving her no room for doubt._

_That he would come out now, in this situation...it made her feel manipulated. But she couldn't fight it. She felt herself relaxing, and Tom scooted closer to her, their hips nearly touching now._

_Her brain grasped at something to say, and came up with, "I've been thinking a lot."_

_Still holding her hand against his face, he raised an eyebrow in question. "Yes?"_

_"I still wish to make some changes."_

_He tensed beside her. "What kind of changes?"_

_"Work changes," she said, casually, finding her bearings under the switch in topics. Slowly, he started to relax._

_"Such as?" He lowered her hand, switching it to the other that still perched on her knee, threading his fingers through her own, palm to palm contact easing her further into this difficult intimacy. His other arm slid across the back of the couch, almost curling around her shoulders._

_"I wish to start some kind of charity. I've talked to my father a lot about it, and he had some wonderful ideas. Particularly about helping impoverished families. We have to start earlier to help them so they don't grow into a desperate enough situation to cause then to turn to crime."_

_Tom was quiet for a few moments. "Have you started making plans?"_

_"I have," she said. Her tablet was filled with notes and potential contacts._

_"And what about your current position?"_

_"I would resign it, of course." She said if offhand, as if it didn't matter. It really didn't, not at this point._

_"Would this endowment come from independent sources or would it be corporately funded?"_

_"I would like it to be independent, but that doesn't mean we can't accept donations," she explained, feeling more comfortable at this moment, talking business instead of the sticky workings of their failing relationship._

_"You realize, of course, that all of this needs money," Tom reminded her gently._

_She almost chuckles. Instead the smirk comes out almost sarcastically. "So I've gathered. But that shouldn't be a problem. I know plenty of places to being fundraising."_

_A grunt issued from this throat. "And who is your first victim?"_

_She shrugged. "Haven't decided yet."_

_His fingers stroked her shoulder, delicately. When he spoke, she could hear him holding back, just barely, his exasperation. "Why are you doing this, Rose? Is it because you feel guilty?"_

_She looked at him, feeling an imperious sense of righteousness so strong that for the first time ever, she felt that she was truly above him. "No, Tom. It's because you don't."_

_The words were a big risk. He could get angry, shove her from him, rant at her for being stubborn and single-minded. Or worse, it could make him go into his cold, steely mode that had become much more commonplace between them, getting worse every time._

_Their eyes locked and she waited with breath held for his response. His eyes nearly glitter as they bore into hers, searching. It was a game of chicken. It wouldn't be the first time she'd be expected to apologize for saying something rash that irritated him, and once she did act contrite he would kiss her cheek and send her on her way, saying all was forgiven._

_No, that Rose wasn't here. She wasn't going to apologize. She was standing by her decision, no matter the consequences. Even though having her hand still entrapped in his made her feel more vulnerable, and her fingers twitched between his._

_"I can't change what's happened, Rose," Tom said, his voice low and steady. Not cold, just frank._

_"No," she said. "But one of us has to deal with the consequences."_

_He let out a rather exasperated sigh, but he didn't push away. If anything, he pulled her closer to him, the hand clutching her shoulder. "Would five million pounds be sufficient consequences?" he asked, almost wearily._

_She shrugged. She was expected to throw her arms around him, thank him for his generosity. And it was generous. Five million pounds would have her off the ground in a month. But no, she wasn't going to reward him. "It would help."_

_He nodded, and that was that. She shifted, getting ready to stand, but he closed around her, and now she was effectively pinned in the corner of the couch, his body almost touching hers, his hand sliding against her shoulder to grasp her closer, keeping her in place._

_"And will you return to our room?" he asked, his voice almost smoky._

_She gazed at him again, weighing her words carefully. She almost wanted to ask if he would take back the five million pounds if she said no, but doesn't. That would infuriate him, suggesting he would try to buy her like a whore, and so far she'd been fortunate in not rousing that beast._

_"I need more time," she said finally._

_Tom sighed again. His expression was...hurt. It flickered in his eyes, made his fingers twitch against her skin._

_"Can I at least welcome you home properly?" he asked, regret lacing his tone, and she frowned. He must have taken her hesitation again for uncertainty, because he leaned in completely and he pulled her to his lips for a kiss._

_Her stomach wobbled and her skin shuddered at the tenderness, it had been so long. Try as she might, she could not get used to him, to his touch, to his affect on her physically. It refused to dull, even after all this time. But her neck complained at the treatment, and she gave a little groan, and he let go, looking at her in concern._

_"My neck is stiff," she said by explanation, letting herself sound apologetic this time._

_Without a word, his fingers went to her neck. She shut her eyes as he gently massaged the angry muscles. The sensation was so delicious that her throat suddenly closed. Why does this have to come now? Why does he have to be like this now, when she was trying to hard to harden her heart against him? As little as a month ago she would have been reduced to a puddle and let him have his way with her right on the couch. Then she realized she'd gone limp against him, his arms encircling her, and he was whispering in her ear, "You taste like strawberries."_

_And the expression of his face, when she found the blood on his cufflink, rose in her vision like a specter._ **Red that splattered the walls** _....She went tense against him and pulled herself upright, sliding forward and pulling herself from the temptation of being enclosed against him._

_"I'm very tired," she said as she pushed at his arms, sliding herself forward as close to freedom as she could get, putting as much dismissal in her voice as she could without going into scorn. "I'm going to go to bed."_

_She could feel Tom's reluctance as he let her go, his hands sliding from her with great unwillingness. He sounded so...cheerless...when he replied, "Very well, Rose. Goodnight."_

_She didn't answer as she stumbled from the study._

Now, as she grasps him around the waist, and feels his arms around her, she is the one who feels regret. His admission before, of his fear...he was afraid of what he was becoming. He was afraid of his violence. It was all the incentive she needed. She had felt, for the longest time, like she was watching a man drown while denying he was in the water.

But his warm embrace is familiar, and the destroyed Shakespeare tomes, the opal necklace -- still warm from his touch before he obviously had thrown it -- the red Pandora's box holding the overwhelming engagement ring, and his words, his quote from Hamlet, they rise up and choke her with accusation. How could she have doubted that he loved her? The shock of seeing what he had done to his precious personal space, the one room where he allowed himself to just...be...being destroyed -- an outside reflection of what was within him? She couldn't help but believe that. It made the guilt worse, that she wronged him, even if she can't bring herself to want to take it back, even if she can't believe that letting him help her raise little Will would have been the right decision --

Because it wasn't.

Being right absolutely sucks.

But now...everything is different. She has no idea what she's going to do.

"Tom," she says after several long moments of just lying there, in his embrace. "When is the last time you slept?"

She raises her head and looks at him. He blinks a few times, and then shakes his head. "Doesn't matter."

"It does. You're exhausted. You need to rest. You can't possibly cope with one more thing until you've had at least eight hours."

He gives a dry chuckle. "I'll be lucky to get three."

She disentangles herself, stands and pulls him to his feet. He is surprisingly docile, and lets her maneuver him. She puts one of his arms over her shoulders and tries to take some of his weight but he won't give it. Instead, he wraps his hand around her shoulder, fingers squeezing lightly into her skin.

"Come on, let's get you to bed."

She leads him through the dim hallways, as outside morning birds begin to sing and weak, pre-dawn light seeps through closed curtains. He is soft against her, yielding, and he even rests his head against hers after they make it to the top of the stairs.

She has not been in their old room yet, and the way it has not changed at all surprises her. Even the bed has the same covers. She pulls back the duvet, sits him down, and kneels to take off his shoes. His manages to unbutton and shuck off his shirt with no assistance. She goes for his belt next, and the look he gives her sends a thrill through her skin, but she pushes away those feelings, knowing now is absolutely no time for those kinds of thoughts.

He crawls under the duvet and lies there, turning to look at her. She pulls the duvet up tighter around him. He reaches out one hand toward her, his eyes totally vulnerable. Unable to help herself, she takes hold of his hand and squeezes, lightly, then lets go. His eyes are shut by the time she turns again and settles herself into the large, overstuffed chair she had put in this room herself years ago. Realizing how exhausted she still is herself, particularly accented by the drama of the last hour, she lays her head back and shuts her eyes, telling herself that she will just sit here a minute and then go back to her own room and get dressed.

When she opens her eyes again, there is a blanket covering her. There are heavy beams of sunlight filling the room. And Tom is gone.


	17. Walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

He wakes up stiff. His muscles are protesting the extremes he’d undergone the previous day. The action in the car, the chase and then the crash would have left his neck stiff regardless. Add to that the forced control as he had battled against his temper, ultimately failing and destroying his study.

His study.

He blinks at the ceiling.

What time is it? He’d managed a few hours of sleep. Maybe. Rose had insisted he get up from amidst the destruction in his study and try to rest. She’d brought him to his bed, yet when he reaches over his palm is met with an empty bed.

She isn’t lying there beside him. He chides himself, that shouldn’t be all that surprising, really. Where is she? He sits up to discover her sleeping in the large reading chair in the corner. The sight of her curled up in the chair brings a smile momentarily to his lips.

Hadn’t placed herself in the bed beside him but hadn’t wanted to leave the room either.

Tom slips from under the duvet to stand next to the bed, dressed only in his trousers from the previous day, and considers Rose’s sleeping form. Her auburn hair is tousled as a result of her fitful, interrupted sleep. He could move her from the chair to the bed, risk momentarily waking her in favor of her comfort. In transferring her he might jar her awake though, and after the night they’d had…. No. He’ll let her remain in the chair. He reaches back under the duvet to pull the sheet loose from the bed to tuck around her.

He’d put her through so much yesterday. He’d make it right – he’d let her sleep a while longer yet, then get her packed and –– having her out of the house and safe would speed things along. Alone again he could concentrate on sourcing out the threat on her life, devote his attention fully to the person or persons who orchestrated this mess. Once away from him she’d probably allow Will to be brought to her as well.

As tempting as it is to lean down and press his lips to her skin while he tucks the sheet around her, he refrains for any such tenderness. He does grant himself a brief moment to still himself and listen to her rhythmic inhale and exhale of breath.

He is slow to quietly circle the room to change. His muscles are protesting every movement. Throwing furniture around clearly worked a few more muscles than sparring ever did these past months. Rather than head into the bathroom to prepare for the day he sets aside the clothes for the day and pulls out athletic gear from his closet. His favorite blue shirt, nearly worn through from repeated use, and a pair of sports pants to provide room to maneuver. The thump of the closet door makes him jerk to check on Rose, but she remains steadfastly asleep.

He would not spiral out of control when she left this time. This time he is fully prepared for the moment. He resists the urge to look back at her again as he leaves his bedroom. Better not to nurse that attachment, better to start to slowly build back up the brick and mortar that he’d bulldozed through last night. Once in the hallway he pauses to buzz for Hadley to meet him in the training room.

He is met by a quick response. It seems that Hadley, too, has woken early after the excitement of the night.

They start with their usual light jabs, each testing the other to see how quick on his feet the other man was this morning. Determined as he is to focus on the movements against Hadley, each twinge of his muscles reminds him of the occurrences of the previous day.

Those thoughts then lead, of course, to the woman asleep in his room – his Rose. Surely she wouldn’t pack and leave while he was here with Hadley. He told her that was essentially the plan but he wanted to help. He wanted to have control over the leaving, unlike last time…

_She spent the days leading up to **it** buried in her charity work so when she didn’t arrive at the house at her usual time in the afternoon he wasn’t worried. She didn’t present herself by dinnertime either, but that still wasn’t cause for alarm. Things had been tense between them for a while now. He should make more of an effort, he should find time to make more of an effort – but she could – no, no throwing blame._

_She said she needed space, needed time. That’s what he had been giving her._

_Night fell and still no Rose._

_He called her mobile and it rung and rung and rung. He didn’t wait for the inbox to activate to leave a message. **Stubborn.** He called the offices where she ran the charity. It wasn’t Rose that answered but her second in command. Rose hadn’t come in that day. _

_Where was she? This wasn’t like her. Sundays were her personal days, every other day of the week she worked. They had been alike in that way – deep seated devotion to their professions._

_He tried figure it out. He sent someone off to continue to call her mobile, and to track its location. Maybe she had decided to spend the day searching for investors for the charity without alerting them to said fact. What car had she taken that morning? [None.] He had heard her in her room the previous night. Someone must have seen her leave the house that morning for her usual jog._

_He questioned everyone. No one remembered seeing her leave, but a few heard her moving around in her room early in the day._

_That information sent him to Rose’s room. A cursory glance told him all was in order. Her room was tidy, just as she preferred it to be. Had something happened while she was out on her early morning jog? **Had she been mugged? Something worse?** As soon as the thought occurred he set off, out of her room and through the house to find the staffers he had tasked with locating her mobile. _

_Hadley was in the security room with the few other men, all working quickly at their respective tasks. **Find her. Find her. Find her.**_

_Had one of his competitors finally stepped forward to challenge him for the title of Crime Lord of London? Tried to do something to attract his attention._

_Well – they had it now._

_The hours marked by her absence accumulated. **Yes, they’d been fighting, distant – but this level of uncommunicativeness was unlike Rose.** He continued to bark out orders for **someone find something regarding Rose’s location** until one of the men let out a muffled harrumph. _

_Tom had been on him before the man could take his eyes from the screen he’d been working on. One glance at the information and Tom had shaken his head. “Check again. That can’t be right.”_

_But it was right. The information had been checked and rechecked. Rose’s mobile had registered as being at the house. Now the entire staff became involved. Everyone was to search the grounds, find Rose, any hint of where she might be. Any torn scrap of clothing. Anything._

_Tom took her room. No one was to go through her things but him._

_Again the first glance told him nothing out of the ordinary. When he started to open random drawers another thought occurred to him – **What if nothing had happened to Rose?** No one had come forward in the first few hours of her absence to claim any actions taken against him or this house. What if she had – _

_He’d been clear before. She couldn’t leave him. He – he wouldn’t survive – the darkness within him would…_

_Until he started to look through the drawers in the bottom of her wardrobe his imagination developed more and more outrageous scenarios. He’d decided to check the drawers just for good measure, running his hands through the silken clothing contained there and stilling when he found something hard hidden beneath the things. Not just one something but several._

_Her phone. Her cards –_ **all** **of them** _. And the thing that sent his mind reeling – her ID._

_But not her necklace. The opal necklace that he’d given her wasn’t with those things. He had clung to that thought, that one glimmer of hope. She hadn’t left him. Hadn’t hidden her personal belongings from sight and walked away from the life they had together._

_He backed away from the wardrobe, her cards left where he had discovered them. She’d just left those important documents in her room for her day spent elsewhere. She’d be back. She was his partner. His…_

_He backpedaled so far that he bumped into her dresser._

_The necklace. She usually kept it out on the dresser, ready to wear for the day. Where was it? Around her neck. He can’t stop himself from yanking open her jewelry drawer. The large velveteen box nestled into the back corner was the first thing to draw his attention. The rest of the baubles were of no concern._

_The necklace wouldn’t be there, she has it draped around her neck._

**_She hadn’t left him._ **

_He pulled the box from the drawer slowly. The weight already told him what he didn’t want to admit to himself._

**_She hadn’t left him._ **

_He opened the box slowly, the deep creak of the metal hinge punctuated by the final pop of the lid settling open. Her necklace was there, coiled around itself neatly._

_The panicked thoughts that had previously gripped him took the opportunity to morph into something else. Something colder. Something that made him slam the velveteen box shut and brought a snarl to his lips._

**_She left him._ ** _She was gone._

Hadley takes advantage of Tom’s distraction to land a decent jab to Tom’s torso. Just enough of a reminder to keep his head or have the breath stolen from his body. Tom scowls and returns a blow with equal force to the one spot his sparring partner has a weakness – defending that left side is still a challenge for Hadley.

What did they practice for, if not for each to point out the other’s weak points? Hadley huffs and gives Tom a small nod, pulling his arms back down to better protect his core. Punch. Block. Punch. Block. They’re working their way through various fighting styles, each helping to correct the other when a stance falls short of perfection. A gentle nudge of the elbow – a not too gentle kick to the side of the knee.

Teamwork would have helped to have found Rose immediately after she had left him two years ago. He had been stubborn though, wanting to keep his problems to himself – wanting to discover her and convince her to come home – **himself**. Had he gone to Ben for advice – he knew without a doubt how his mentor would have responded: _She’s **gone**? You need to handle this, Tom. She knows too much about the empire._

Handle this. Yes – that is how Ben would have phrased it. He would have demanded Tom hunt Rose down and ensure that information regarding their criminal empire remained undisclosed. Tom could never do that – could never see a situation where he would be able to end her life.

That’s why he had gone to Mark. But even Mark couldn’t fully be trusted.

_“Why are you asking, Tom?” Mark asked, as he squinted up from the paperwork he’d been perusing while at his desk. “Ben wouldn’t like us trifling around in the Americas without –“_

_It took restraint not to slam his hands down on Mark’s desk. He interrupted, instead, with his fists clenched at his sides, “It’s a simple venture and a simple request Mark. Do you have any references for our American counterparts or no?”_

_Mark’s greedy smile slid into place, his paperwork now forgotten. Making life difficult for Tom was a particular joy. “Yes.” His actions came slowly – careful consideration of the pens within his desk, choice of paper to write upon – a show of taking his time. “I find it curious, though, that the star pupil seems reluctant to go to his mentor for something so **simple**.” _

_There were already a few names on the previously blank page. Tom held his tongue long enough to accept the paper and start toward the door. Going to Mark had been difficult, but the paper held in his hand made it worthwhile. Soon he would be able to worry less. Tom’s people would search Europe while someone trustworthy searched the Americas._

_But Mark couldn’t know **why** the search is necessary. But he would never let matters lie. “Ben has a deeper knowledge of our American counterparts, after all.”_

_It was the first of many times Tom found himself uttering the phrase: “It is none of your concern.”_

_“My recommendations. My concern.”_

_Tom had nearly gotten out the door. Mark would probably keep a close eye on their American brethren, trying to figure out which Tom had chosen and what he had tasked them with. Asking for help had been a mistake._

Tom brings his hands back up to the ready to notice the tape on one of his wrists is starting to peel. They’ll need to break soon to repair it, his mind is nowhere near ready to face the day as of yet. He needs another half an hour or more to concentrate on centering himself. No more haunting thoughts. No more moments he wishes he could forget.

They are his weaknesses. They are what pull him under.

Focus. Focus on the routine. Focus on the rhythm of the maneuvers and the movements of the man opposite. Hadley is leaving his ribs unprotected. Purposefully? Yes. Hadley’s slight repetitive dip to his elbow give the maneuver away. He’s trying to play to Tom’s aggressive nature.

Tom refuses to fall to that temptation.

He is already starting to clear away the internal mess left from the previous night, ready to rebuild the foundations. He _will_ maintain control from here on out. Instead of attacking immediately he initiates a sequence to manipulate Hadley backwards. The intention is to send his sparring partner into a retreat back across the room and, ideally, ends with Hadley sprawled on the floor.

The control he is exhibiting in the technique – blows timed perfectly and executed without any stirrings from the darkness – reassures him. His mask is settling back into place.

He helps Hadley back to his feet and they restart, weaving back and forth across the room as the advantage switches between them. A loosely planted foot causes Tom to slide down to one knee as Hadley attempts to throw him over onto the mat. Turnabout is fair play. Hadley’s dominance in the fight is not long lived. Tom springs back up, grappling for purchase and winding up with a fistful of his employee’s shirt.

Advance. Retreat. Tom plans out the footwork for the next clash. He and Hadley are locked together, arm to arm, when he notices Rose sitting off to the side of the room. She has come down to watch? To say goodbye? His grip on Hadley’s forearm falters. A lesser man might have taken the moment to send Tom head over heels to the floor but Hadley merely maintains his hold on Tom.

It takes a simple nod to disengage. It is far past time for them to end the morning routine. They’re both drenched in sweat. Tom looks again to Rose. In the hour or two during the workout he’s had time to build back what would amount to a low retaining wall but the rest of his internal defenses are still in ruin.

The fact that the first thought was one of hope – that she’d come down to watch – irritates him. He’ll approach any exchange with her with caution. He aims for a neutral expression as he walks towards her. If she’s just waiting there to say goodbye he can save the action by occupying himself with the stack of towels nearby. 


	18. Ours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rose]

_Rose opened her eyes and found an arm wrapped around her. An arm clad in an expensive and familiar blue shirt. The sleeve rolled to just under the elbow. The hand entwined with hers._

_She thought she was dreaming. She had dreamed lucidly before, and it was a familiar, heavy feeling. When she was a child, in this state she had killed monstrous spiders, had conversations with talking cats, and other variously weird things. So a dream this vivid didn't strike her as odd, didn't frighten her._

_It was obviously Tom, curled along her back. Perhaps her subconscious, which still whined at her now and then, missed him so immensely that it conjured this vision. Or the guilt. Or the pressure. She could dream-feel him lying behind her, big spoon to little spoon. The hard lines of his body were familiar and comfortable. She didn't want to move._

_His mouth was on the back of her neck, nose nuzzling her hair. Then, he was kissing her, his lips sliding along the curve of her neck onto her shoulder._

_It was nice. In this dream, she wasn't angry at him. She wasn't afraid of him. She wasn't trying to get away from him. He was just being sweet, affectionate, and unguarded._

_Slowly, she shifted. Too much movement and she'd wake herself up and chase away the dream, but it still felt solid as she turned to face him. His beautiful face was so distressed, and she felt an overwhelming desire to comfort him. She stroked his cheek, whispered against his neck, sweet nothings that had no real meaning._

_He pulled her closer to him, and Rose's vision was filled with his lips, his stubble, his mussed hair, his burning eyes which were nearly green in the morning half-light. She dragged her lips against his, caressing more than kissing, feeling their texture._

_His hand dragged along her side, pressing; his eyes bore into hers, begging her for something. Rose felt herself slipping into a deeper sleep, but before it took her, she lowered her head and her lips found the hollow of his throat. His long neck and its perfect lines had always been one of her favorite parts of him...although if pressed she could never pick one favorite, they all gained her favor at one time or another. She had to be the only woman in the world who honestly had a lover who was more attractive than her, but instead of letting it make her jealous she had always felt a twisted kind of pride. Tom was, physically, quite beautiful. It was the only word for him. But she was only allowed to tell him that in their most intimate moments._

_Tom groaned and pressed her deeper into his chest, wrapping himself around her with his long arms and legs. She felt his mouth in the crown of her hair. Heard his whispering._

_"I love you, Rose. I love you, so very much."_

_Encased in this cocoon of bliss, she drifted off again._

_And when she woke up, alone, the dream still lingered around her, the feeling clinging to her insides and making her awakening that much ruder._

_But the sheets...they smelled of him. He had smelled of whiskey last night, which wasn't unusual. Tom savored his whiskey, it was his favorite drink. It was natural that the smell would follow into her dream, as the smell always made her think of him. This, however, was a bit thicker than usual._

_She climbed from her bed and pulled on her robe. She was compelled to check on him. Of course she would dream of him. This last month had been hell on Earth, but worth it. The charity was doing some good, and no small thanks was due to a lot of late nights. Getting everything organized. Finding a suitable second that she could trust -- Christoph had been a God-send. Fending off the sharks who thought she owed them favors because of their donations._

_Worst of all that, avoiding Tom. It had been easier than she suspected because of all the work launching your own charity required. The hardest part had been the big fundraiser from the previous night, the fundraiser she had deliberately not invited Tom or anyone associated with him to because while she acknowledged that it was only right that these vultures pay for the damages they caused, she didn't want their presence scaring away the truly good ones. The stress of not telling Tom, though, had weighed on her conscience._

_Yes, that was why. That explained it._

_Padding down to his -- once, their -- room, she stopped outside the door and hesitated. Should she knock? It would be the polite thing to do. But this early, would she wake him? Did she want to wake him?_

_She knocked softly, so she could at least say she had tried when she was scolded later. Surprisingly, the door was ajar, and slipped open a bit more against her rapping knuckles. She caught it by the edge and gently moved it wider, so she could at least peek into the room to see what was what._

_Tom was asleep on his bed. In his underwear, on top of the covers. On top. Not under the sheets, where he belonged. Stepping farther into the room, she saw clothes crumpled in the corner, a blue shirt peeking out underneath the flung trousers._

_It was very unlike Tom to be so careless with his clothes. And he looked like he'd just crawled onto the bed, also very unlike him. She walked over to the bed, her mind spinning._

_She had_ **dreamed** _of him, hadn't she?_

_Tom groaned and rolled over. His face turned to her and his eyes fluttered, and he saw her standing over him, because his eyes widened and he tried to pull himself up, but something was wrong and he gave a moan._

_She'd heard that before. When he drank too much and was hung over. It didn't happen often, which was a reason to mark it._

_"Rose?" he slurred. "What...what time is...what are you..."_

_She glanced at the clock. "It's seven. Sunday morning. And I am checking on you because I was concerned."_

_He managed to get his elbows under him, shaking his head from the grogginess. "Concerned...about me?"_

_"Yes, of course," she said with strained patience. She was going to regret this. He was going to use it against her later, in some attempt to lure her back in. But compulsion kept her there, and a bizarre desire to let him try. It had obviously been too long for her, she was starting to miss him, and her dream still lingered around her memory like a sweet haze. She was going soft._

_He finally got his eyes open to look at her. "And...are you concerns valid?"_

_"You're sleeping on top of your duvet. In your underwear." She can't help herself, it comes out of her weakness. "While it's a nice view, it's hardly normal. Are you feeling all right?"_

_He rubbed his eyes, more grunting as he pulled his head together. He finally got himself sitting up, and looked up at her with a charming little smirk that made her lips quirk in a return grin. "I'm feeling better now."_

_"You had too much to drink last night," she sighed, turning to go. Enough of this, back to business. She shouldn't have indulged this much..._

_"You had an important event last night...and didn't tell me about it."_

_The words were not spoken in accusation, although she felt the guilt smack her instantly. She stopped, turned and looked at him. He gazed up at her, his face surprisingly open._

_"Did it go well?" he asked gently._

_"Very well," she said softly._

_He nodded. "Today is Sunday. Your day off."_

_She sighed. Dammit. "Yes." Although she hadn't taken any other Sunday off this month, today she had been planning to treat herself to celebrate._

_He looked up at her again, his eyes so big and pleading she felt her throat close again. "I know you've been busy, I haven't pressed...but can we spend some time together? I've missed you."_

_She didn't remember she last time she heard him speak so plainly, and her heart gave a nasty little wrench, betraying her. "I...I don't..."_

_"Please, Rose?" he said, calmly and with persistence. He reached out, but her hand was a bit too far and he didn't reach it. "It's just a day."_

_She realized she couldn't say no. Worse, she didn't want to._

_"Can you...give me until lunch?"_

_He instantly brightened. "Noon, sharp. I'll have something planned. Thank you, Rose."_

_She nodded at him, and left. Wondering what the hell she had done._

But if it hadn't been for that...Rose thinks as she stares as the familiar ceiling, uncurling herself from where she had burrowed into the overstuffed chair. Trying to run away from him then had been necessary. Now, it would be foolish.

She needs Tom. She needs him desperately. And it is obvious that he would not hurt her -- he has had two years of opportunity and taken none of it. He sunk into a despondent state after he almost hurt her. He even wants to send her away, protect her. He seems to understand. He is even willing to admit his own fear of his own violence.

If only she could get him to see his way off the path...

But it felt impossible. Tom was entrenched into this lifestyle long before she came into the picture. Ben's hold on him is...indissoluble.

Shaking off the thoughts, Rose remembers something extremely important and pulls herself out of the chair. The sheet that Tom put over her during her slumber smells like him, and she takes a minute to inhale that scent, in spite of better sense, before she folds up the sheet and lays it on the bed. She makes her way back to her room and (reluctantly) goes to the wardrobe.

Tom bought these clothes for her. After destroying _her_ clothes. Because she left. The whole thing makes her a little queasy, but they are quite lovely clothes. She finds a casual dress, as many of the dresses are either too long, too glamorous, or both.

The dress is white, with deep blue flowers around both the collar and the hem, with a spattering of much smaller deep blue flowers in between. It is made of cotton, one of the least expensive things there, and she likes it. Tom probably saw it in some store window and bought it without thinking if it was made by some designer.

She finds a pair of dark blue flats at the bottom of the wardrobe that are in the same family of blue, if not a perfect match. She brushes her hair out, finds some old make-up still in her drawers and is able to apply some eyeliner, blush and lipstick.

She knows Tom is not in his room, so she sets out to find Hadley. Hadley will know where he is. As she reaches the bottom of the stairs, she hears grunting coming from the training room. Tom never had much use for the training room while they were together, it was mostly just for showing off. But it is obviously in use now.

She walks in and sees Tom lunge at Hadley. He gets him by the shirt high over heart, and his face is intense, his teeth grit, the exertion tremendous. He wears black and white fingerless gloves and a thin, vivid blue T-shirt, and expensive track pants, comfortable clothes he wouldn't be caught dead in outside of a strenuous workout. Rose feels her heart give a little palpitation as she catches a glimpse of how well his workout has toned his body, particularly his behind.

Hadley, for his part, is taking it well, his hand around Tom's wrist, even though Tom has his hand around Hadley's other wrist. They pounce and twist, blows effectively blocked. Rose sits down on a small bench, tucking her skirt around her knees as she leans forward, curious to see where this will go.

The boys go at it for a few more minutes, and then Tom finally notices her. He signals Hadley, and they stop, separating, panting. The look he gives her is...difficult to read. He is still coming down from the workout, his exertion still on his face. But he comes over to her, probably because she is sitting near the towels. He grabs one, begins drying his hair which is heavy with thick drops of sweat.

The tangy smell of him makes her shift uncomfortably. It is strong and musky and not at all unpleasant. So instead of dwelling on it, she stands up and says, "Tom, I have to ask you for something. It's about William."

He pauses, slinging the towel about his neck. Those damn fingerless gloves he's wearing are very distracting as he fiddles with the tape binding his wrist. His eyebrow arches, waiting for her to go on. This is important. She has to concentrate.

"A few times a week, I check in with Margaret," she explains in a soft voice, although there is no need to hide anything from Hadley, after what he had to have heard last night. "I gave her a cell phone and she keeps it in a safe place so I can call her. No one else has the number, it's disposable--"

"I understand what you did, Rose," Tom says patiently. "Do you want to use a land line?"

"Do you have a burner phone I can use?"

Tom nods, turns to Hadley who is stretching. Rose cannot help but be distracted by Tom again, how his muscles have nicely shaped themselves, how he has matured in the seven years since she met him. And those fucking gloves...

A burner phone is produced and put in her hand. Tom's hand lingers before he pulls it away, and she instantly recognizes that he wants to stay, he wants to hear, his curiosity has obviously been at him and of course, anything to do with William would be of high interest. She is surprised at how well he's taking this, but after the way he held her last night, after the truth about the engagement ring and her opal necklace, and especially with the sheet from his bed wrapped around her this morning, few things feel like they can surprise her anymore.

She flips open the phone and dials the number. Tom starts to remove the damaged tape on his wrist, stepping away while Rose waits for the answer, but not by much.

"Rose?" comes Margaret's gentle voice.

"Margaret," Rose says back, feeling the terrible urge to smile. The feeling of how badly she misses William floods her chest and her sinuses tingle with tears that prick the corners of her eyes. "How is everything?"

"We're--" And then the world shifts, slides, and all becomes chaos.

"Margaret?" Rose says when the pause that cut her older friend off doesn't end.

"Who are you?" comes Margaret's voice, raised, slightly shrill, and definitely afraid.

"Margaret!" Rose says, louder, as if that will help. "What going on!" She is bare aware that she has turned her back to Tom, but Tom is now right behind her, his chest nearly touching her.

"William!" Margaret shrieks. "No! You can't!" There is a clattering sound, and the distinctive pop that comes when a cell phone hits the floor.

"MARGARET!" Rose howls, knowing it won't make any difference by helpless to do anything else. Her fingers go slack, suddenly unable to hold anything anymore, and Tom grabs the phone from her hand, but she can't make out anything he is saying into it over the roaring terror in her ears.

She turns back, her hand still frozen upright by her face, and Tom's face is drawn tight, all the lines showing as he pulls the phone away from his ear.

"What's the number?" he asks in a barely controlled tone. "It's gone dead, Rose. We need to call back."

She gives him the number, automatically by rote. It goes automatically to a generic mail box, not even ringing.

It too much. Rose can't take anymore. Something has happened to her son, to her baby, her Will, and there is no way for her to know what, and after everything else, it's just too much. She feels her knees start to give, the world go blurry, and she is sliding, falling, giving way.

Suddenly Tom is there, holding her upright against him, then gently putting her down on the bench where she previously sat. He is barking at Hadley for...she can only make out Hadley's name, everything else is a fog.

Tom kneels in front of her, and there is something cold being pressed against her cheek, her forehead. Tom sooths her hair away from her face, speaking to her gently, taking control of the situation, of her. A glass of water is gently nudged into her hand, and she grips it as Tom helps her bring it to her lips. The water is deliciously cold and it helps snap her back.

"Something with sugar will help better, sir," comes Hadley's voice above them, and a glass of orange juice replaces the water, and Rose drinks it greedily, until it is empty. She feels amazingly better, until the horror strikes her heart again and she almost crumples a second time.

"Rose," Tom says, and now they are alone, Hadley has taken the glasses away and will probably be back with more in a few moments. "Rose, listen to me. Listen to my voice." He is so calm, so in control, she wants to marvel at him, but can't think past the single horrible thought... _something has happened to my baby_...

"I know what has happened, Rose. Despite your countermeasures, they found him, your William. I will find them, and I will bring him back to you. "

She raises her head, opens her eyes, sees Tom's face. He is kneeling at her feet, and the man is so damn tall that his head is almost level with hers. He grasps her chin, his fingers gently caressing her jaw on one side, his thumb on the other.

"I will find him, Rose. They wouldn't do anything to harm him, he's too valuable." Tom meets her eyes, and his are so blue, so intense, she could fall into them. Even though she hears the forced confidence in his words, she clings to them, desperately. She wants to curl up and hide inside him and forget all this, let him do whatever he needs to do, let him handle everything and just sink into oblivion--

But no, she is not that way. Not anymore. She blinks several times, trying to get a grip. 

"Do you hear me, Rose?" he asks, his voice softer, almost sweet. And so very strong and steady. She nods, barely, looking back at him, eyes focusing now, more... _there_. "I will find William. I will find your son, and I will give him back to you. You have my word.” 

She reaches out, puts her hands on Tom's shoulders, grips the blue shirt that fits them so well. She nods, and then again, more vigorously. "Our son," she murmurs. 

"What?"

"Our son," she says with more strength. She reaches out, slides her arms around his shoulders, pulls him to her with a hug that saps her of whatever strength she has left. She almost expects Tom to gently pry her off him, but instead his arms go around her waist and he pulls her tighter.

"Our son," he agrees, his lips close to her ear.

"You'll find him," she echoes his earlier words. She presses her face against his long neck and doesn't care how sweaty he still is. At this moment, he is the only thing holding her together.

Tom with a goal has always been much more dangerous than Tom without one.


	19. Sweep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder - August Tempest as imagined for this story is played by Nathan Fillion. 
> 
> [Tom]

Something has happened to her Will – to their son. Perhaps those that had been making threats against her had shifted their attention to the unshielded boy. No, there was no perhaps about it – when Tom had pulled her back under his protection they’d had no choice but to shift their focus.

Will he ever be free from the curse of causing his loved ones pain?

He is in motion the moment Rose’s knees buckle to catch her body against his so she doesn’t tumble to the floor. He holds her against his chest as he propels the pair of them back to sit her down on the little seat she had been perched upon moments before.

“Water!” He doesn’t need to finish the command. Hadley is already heading from the room. Rose is looking right at him but doesn’t see him.

Shock. She’s in shock. That knowledge does nothing to dull the pain netted from the feeling of her looking right through him, beyond him. He is used to those gorgeous hazel eyes piercing him with rage, accusation, pain, lust, or revulsion. Those things he can readily handle.

“Rose? Rose.” He kneels down before her, searching her eyes as he softly speaks to her. When he judges that she can keep herself upright he releases his grip on her shoulders.  “Look at me, Rose. _See me,_ Rose.”

No recognition that’s he’s spoken a word.

Hadley reappears with two glasses, one liquid clear the other opaque. Tom doesn’t take time now to comment but pours some of the water onto a fresh towel to press against Rose’s skin. When that doesn’t do the trick he urges her to take the water, perhaps take a sip. As she drains the glass her eyes refocus. Hadley hands over the second offering and Tom notes the sweet scent of juice.

As Rose drains the second glass Tom speaks to her with a deliberate calmness. He forces his words and motions to be smooth. There will be ample time for violence, later. She won’t respond to his anger. Seeing it now would just further her current condition.

Her eyes flutter closed and she sags against his hold. “Rose, listen to me. Listen to my voice.” His mind is racing to sort the pieces. His first thought, though he wants to cast it aside, is the only conclusion that makes sense.

Now is not the time to mince words. “I know what has happened, Rose. Despite your countermeasures, they found him, your William. I will find them. I will bring him back to you. They won’t do anything to harm him. He’s too valuable.”

He should have left that last part out. It is surprising that she hadn’t lurched from her seat to pummel him with her fists. This is his fault. This is something that smacks distinctly of his world. **_They_ won’t _harm William._** He wants it to be true, wills it to be true, for Will’s sake – for Rose’s sake – for his own. _If_ those that have Will harm him in any way – no, _regardless_ – they will regret ever taking the boy. They will regret ever considering it a viable option.

“Do you hear me, Rose? I _will_ find William. I _will_ find your son and get him back to you. You have my word, Rose.”

He almost misses her murmured response though he’s holding her close. “Our son.” She repeats it with more strength behind the words. “ _Our_ son.”

He had been managing his composure by keeping that distinction clear in his mind. Rose wanted him separate, wanted Will separate. But something in the past twenty-four hours has changed her mind on that front.

“You’ll find him.”

Tom nods. “I’ll find him. I’ll find our son.” Repeating her words makes his body hum in response – calling for violence against those that dare wrong his family.

He pushes himself away from her, holding her at arm’s length. She’s still not steady enough to release completely from his grasp but he desperately needs to pace. His mind is racing. How did they find William? Rose said they had been careful… Details. He needs more details. He hesitates briefly, ensuring that she doesn’t slip from the bench before he finally stands. He feels the pacing thing within him – demanding a counterstrike. He growls internally in response.

_Yes, yes. You will get your fill – once we find those that have taken William._

 But _how_ did they find William? He starts to unwind the tape from his wrists. The ripping noise and the sting as the adhesive is forced to release its hold pulls his mind back on point. How. _How?_ “How?!” He takes a few long strides towards the center of the room and stops.

Rose said she had been watched toward the end of the pregnancy. He balls up the tape remnants and casts the mess aside, then peels the gloves from his hands. He moves past that anger to the new distraction. _They_ , the unknown _they_ , had watched even after she gave birth.

Rose is hugging herself. She is nearly shaking when she quietly replies to him. “I don’t know. I don’t know. We were so careful.”

Tom tosses his gloves aside as well. _They_ had watched from a distance, so _they_ had been none the wiser when she pulled the switch. He turns and paces back towards Rose. No – not towards Rose – he reroutes to stride off towards the windows. He is too internally twitchy to return to her side and project the confidence she needs to see. **_They have Will._ **

“I haven’t even spoken of Will until you demanded it.”

That conversation – because despite the yelling he refuses to call it anything else in his head – had taken place within the four walls of this house.

He has been thinking about this all wrong. Analyzing from the fact that _they_ had been keeping a close eye on his Rose. They had been fooled by the switch. They hadn’t tracked Margaret and Will down until today. It isn’t a visual cue that had led them to Will…

Someone has been listening.

He turns back to face the expansive room, “Ha-“ Hadley isn’t standing beside Rose as he had been moments prior. Tom stalks towards the doorway, making it nearly to the exit of the room before Hadley reappears with another glass of juice for her. “Hadley, when was the last security sweep of the house?” The house staff had probably wondered at his paranoia but obviously it was founded.

Hadley rights himself after stooping to deliver the glass and faces his employer. “Three days ago, sir.”

Three days. Three days. Had someone been in the house since then? He usually had the house swept once a week for bugs, for anything out of the ordinary. “Do it again.”

He glances sidelong at Rose. The bit of juice in the bottom of the glass betrays the slight tremors running through her system. Her eyes are fixed on the floor, on the phone that rests there. Had he thrown it down? No – he’d set it aside while trying to draw her out of her hollow state.

Tom kneels to scoop up the offending device in the hopes that removing it from her field of view will help to further steady her. He holds the phone up and out towards Hadley. “Keep calling that number until someone picks up.”

Now kneeling before her again he does his best to soften his tone. “Rose? Rose, tell Hadley every detail you can about where Margaret went.”

She shakes her head. Is it in disbelief over the fact that someone has taken Will or refusing to give up that last bit of information? Holding back now does nothing to change events. It only hinders him being able to do something about it.

Tom takes a breath and exhales slowly. “Rose, my men are still in Nebraska. Ethan, Jacob, and Paul will go to Margaret. They will protect her.”

“But I don’t know anything that will help, Tom.” When her lips start to tremble he fears she might start crying again, but she holds herself together. “I was afraid of what might happen to him, so past knowing that they were to fly out of Nebraska, I made _sure_ I didn’t know anything. Just in case.”

Just in case someone tried to use the knowledge against her. A fresh wave of ire vibrates through his system. He places a hand on her knee. It is the most contact he can muster at this moment. His reply comes clipped, “Whatever details you can provide will give them a starting point.”

He needs to move. The forced calm is slipping. When she nods he stands and only half listens while she relays information to Hadley. His brain is already on the next task. One again he’ll be forced to rummage through the belongings in her room. He has already faced the memory once in the past twenty-four hours. It hits him again full force – the panic, the anger.

She had not left him this time. Even with the reassurance of her voice he still needs to turn to once more lay eyes on her. His mind, aided by the whiskey, had played tricks on him so many times during her absence – making him think he’d heard her whispering his name in the middle of the night.

No – in his current state the room, and the memories associated with it, would suffocate him. They’ll remain here in the training room while things are sorted.

Finally Hadley nods to him, the cue that he has all the information he needs from Rose. Tom resumes his demands, his voice still on edge as he speaks. “Have everyone present pulled from their current tasks and sweep this house. You, and _only_ you, are to sweep Rose’s room. If someone discovers something I want to be alerted immediately.”

Hadley hesitates only moments, “Sir? Where will you be?”

“Here. We’ll wait here. I’ll sweep this room myself. Just bring me a frequency scanner.” He tightens his hands into fists, then flexes his fingers out and finally relaxes his stance again to shake away the tension. It doesn’t help much, but moving around the room surely will. He gives Rose a wide berth, starting his scan of the room off to her right. He’ll let her remain as she is for as long as possible.

Nothing. The scanner in his hands stays stubbornly silent, meanwhile his frustration is ever growing. There had to be something! Something here explains how Will had been discovered... The slow controlled motions are adding to his frustration and now his skin is starting to itch. He needs a shower. He needs to regroup. Something will strike him as obvious upon a second viewing, he knows it.

Hadley appears in the doorway, his own security wand tucked beneath one arm and the burn phone held to his ear. He too is still dressed in the training gear from the morning’s sparring routine, looking all the wearier for it. Everyone just needs to settle and regroup. No answer. Hadley lowers the phone to end the call and press redial. Tom stops the mid-sweeping-arc of his arm to study Hadley but his expectant look is met with a short shake of the Scotsman’s head. “There’s nothing in her room.”

Tom is nearly through in his circuit of the room, almost back around to where Rose is seated on the bench. He ignores the final few sections of the room to refocus on Hadley. “You checked all surfaces. Every corner?”

No answer. Redial.

“Thoroughly. Sir.” Hadley stiffens at the suggestion he didn’t meticulously perform the task assigned. It was his job to keep the household safe. He supervised the security team, supervised all the weekly sweeps.

No answer. Redial.

“Not thoroughly enough. You didn’t find anything.” Why is it that _not_ finding anything is more troublesome than potentially finding something? There _had_ to be something in her room. It is the only thing that makes sense. That was where the conversation about William had taken place. If he took Rose at her word, and he did, it was the only time she’d talked about Will, Margaret, or the plan to keep Will safe.

Hadley must have overlooked something.

Tom squints at Hadley as he thinks. “And you checked the clothes she was wearing yesterday.”

“Really, Tom. Who would have had time to bug my clothes?”

The first sure statement that she’s uttered since the phone call and it’s laced with irritation that is directed at him. Tom inclines his head slightly as he bites back the urge to bark out something brash. Worse yet, Rose finds now to be the best time to stand and take a step to approach.

“I checked every crevice of both cloth and chamber. The house is clean, sir.” Everyone is now caught in the loop of watching Hadley end the call, press another button, and put the phone to his ear again.

“You continued to call while you were sweeping her room, her clothes. It is plausible you overlooked something while redialing.” He really needs to explain himself? There isn’t time for this. Tom checks Rose’s progress to where he and Hadley are standing. “If the house is clean, then we have a larger problem on our hands, Hadley. It means someone overheard an intimate conversation…”

Hadley raises both eyebrows. He knows better than to voice the words that come through clearly in his facial expression: _Intimate? You were shouting and throwing things…_

“…and passed on information to be used against this household. I will not stand for it.” Tom swings his arm out to indicate the rest of the household and a high pitched squeal emits from the security scanner in his hand as it passes over the general area where Rose is standing.

Everyone stills.

He’d completely forgotten the thing was still on as it hadn’t produced a single stuttered sound since he’d started his sweep of the room. Rose’s eyes have gone wide again. The only movement from her is the slight shift of her eyes as she watches Tom lift his hand to pass over her body once more and the security scanner screeches.

**_Impossible._ **

Tom steps to her side and slowly sweeps the scanner over her body until he narrows down the area the blasted scanner continues to identify. And then he sees the shine of the small disc of translucent plastic hidden on her skin right at the nape of her neck. Had her hair been pulled a slightly different way he might not have seen it. “Rose.” He hands the scanner off to Hadley and takes a breath before trusting himself to reach out and touch her. “Don’t. Move.” If she jumps he’ll lose the placement and they’ll have to search out the tiny disc again.

He scrapes his fingernail gently over her skin to remove the dot. He studies the bug as he takes a few steps backwards to put distance between the pair of them once more. Who had placed the bug on her? Who had touched her? Who had had the opportunity and the time…. The goons from the elevator? He would send his security team after the men that had delivered Rose and call his American counterpart, August Tempest, as soon as he was able to unclench his jaw.

Hadley concentrates on the speck on Tom’s fingernail also. He has the motion for trying to connect with Margaret down pat, not even looking away at this point to find the button to end the call and redial. Rose takes a step to join in the examination of the thing that had previously perched upon her skin and Tom shakes his head to stall her steps.

“Hadley,” Tom’s voice is low when he finally speaks, “find out all you can on this.” His security wand tucked beneath one arm while he still continues the cycle – no answer, hangup, redial, no answer, hangup, redial – he pulls a cloth from his pocket to accept the bug. On his way out of the room Hadley shakes his head, muttering to himself, “Take this, take that. I don’t have eight arms… I’m not a bloody octopus.”

Tom glares at Hadley’s departing form, “I could give you one less arm and see how you juggle then…” Rose’s stifled snort draws his gaze to find her biting back a smile. He falters a bit and draws a deep breath to regroup. **_Focus, Tom. Find Will. How? Figure out who planted the bug._** “Presuming it wasn’t on you before you were collected from your apartment, Tempest’s men might have…”

Rose takes another cautious step towards him. She frowns at the suggestion, “No. They didn’t touch me. I wouldn’t let them.”

Thinking back to seeing her step off the elevator in the parking deck - he had watched her carefully maintain a buffer from the two men guiding her along. He inclines his head, looking at her down his nose, “You didn’t doze at any time during the flight? Accept a blanket?”

“Would _you_ be able to sleep if strange men were kidnapping you?”

This is good, the banter. She’s coming back to herself again and it gives him something to distract himself from the impatient thing in his head demanding action. Establish a plan, then act. He snorts and waves his hand idly in the air to swipe the notion aside. “Kidnapping. _Protecting._ ”

Rose settles him with a firm look of her own. “Snatching me from my home in the middle of the night. _Kidnapping._ ”

Tom drags his fingertips through his hair. Arguing semantics won’t find their son. Who else had interacted with Rose since she landed in London? He certainly hadn’t bugged her… which left Ben and Mark. His mentor? The idea is laughable. Mark? Mark had consistently questioned her absence. And then Tom’s thoughts shift to visions of Mark’s lingering leer as he greeted Rose on the grounds of the headquarters the night before. Mark had never bothered to hide the fact that he enjoyed Rose’s figure – and he had been trailing along behind the group as a result of Tom leading the way through the house towards the meeting room, towards Ben.

He bares his teeth and takes a step towards the doorway, “Mark.”

Rose stands between him and the exit. “Mark? Mark didn’t touch me, Tom. The only person, aside from you, that touched me yesterday was Ben. On that shoulder, actually.”

“He didn’t touch you that you noticed. Mark could manage it, if he wanted.” Tom sidesteps, intent on leaving the room and confronting Mark. The bug’s discovery was thoroughly announced – Mark would be well prepared for Tom’s accusations. Would it just be accusations?

Threats?

**_Promises._** A gleeful voice whispers within him.

She again sidesteps and puts her hands on her hips, determined to waylay him. “How could he have gotten that thing on my neck from behind, Tom?”

Tom growls and takes the few remaining steps to close the gap between them. “Do you want to find William or not?!” He registers the motion of her hand about the same moment he realizes the words he had spat at her. He doesn’t move to block the blow, or dodge it. Just stands there and accepts the sting that surely is the equivalent of the comment he’d let slip.  

He isn't going to push past her, shove her aside to get his way. He takes a step back and uses a prolonged few moments to readjust his tone. “I’m going to get cleaned up. We’ll discuss this at length when I come back down.”

Mollified that he isn’t going to storm off and make matters worse Rose finally lets him pass.  


	20. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rose]

Rose stands in the study. She stares out the window, her back to the room. They had cleaned it up, Hadley and some of the others, picking up the debris from the floor and collecting the papers that were scattered, somehow managing to organize them and place them back on the desk. It didn't look fixed -- there were gaping holes in the bookshelves were heavy manuscripts should have been, and anything breakable was gone, vacuumed up. But it held some sort of order, and this was still where Tom retreated to think.

It is the only room in the house she can stand to be in at this moment. Why, she isn't sure. Maybe it's because it's a seat of power, Tom's power, and that is what she needs right now. But all of this mess...every spot of it. It would never have come about if not for _Tom's power_.

It is remarkable how easy it is to close your eyes and ignore your problems, hoping they will go away. The problem with that is, of course, the problems don't go away. They hide, multiply, and then reappear, more monstrous than before.

She's slipping into blame, now. When truth is, she is to blame. For all of it. From the first moment she met him, from the first moment she knew what he was, what he was being groomed for, she was always free to choose. Until she couldn't choose anymore. If she was going to blame Tom, she had to take as much blame herself. But her will was bent, crooked, and blaming that on anything else other than her own choices is ridiculous.

_When she came downstairs, promptly at noon, Tom waited for her in what she had dubbed in her head as his "Jack Skellington" suit. It was blue, but striped. He wore an Armani T-shirt underneath, something earth-toned, and a scarf dangled around his neck. His hair looked lighter, softer, not smoothed back as he usually wore it. She could see some of his curls behind his ears._

_"You look lovely," he said, reaching out to take her hand. She gave it, although a bit reluctantly. She wore a white dress that looked mostly like an oversized blouse, with three ruffles for the skirt and three cuffs on each sleeve, one below the shoulders, one at the elbow and a third where a cuff should be. It was a bit too short and borderline see-through, but it was comfortable and she wanted to be comfortable. Her hair fell slightly damp down her back and she had worn minimal make-up._

_They went to lunch at a place they hadn't visited in ages, since Tom had deemed it not high quality enough to fit their expensive lifestyle. The place still made the best pudding, so after she ordered "only a salad," as Tom called it, even if it was covered with a variety of toppings, Tom ordered a bit more than a few desserts. His sweet tooth finished off what Rose couldn't bring herself to eat -- although she brought herself to eat quite a lot._

_"I like you with some healthy padding," he teased her when she pushed away the last bit of some creamy confection that she had to force herself to stop eating. "A soft layer to dig my fingers into."_

_Rose knew she shouldn't be encouraging him, but the afternoon was so delightful and he was being so much like he had been in those first days, reminding her that the man she knew was still there, somewhere, that she couldn't help herself. "A bit of junk in my trunk."_

_"A bit of jiggle in your wiggle," Tom supplied._

_Rose laughed. "Oh, I definitely have that."_

_"Hmmm I know." He gave her a look that made her desperate to change the subject._

_After lunch they walked around, visited some of the popular visitor spots. His "plans" had included getting into one of the boats normally used by tourists and rowing her around, reciting Shakespearian sonnets to her, stopping at the ones she groaned at and even pulling out a few of the more obscure ones he had obviously been practicing._

_It was early evening by the time they got anywhere close to home, but Tom seemed restless. He didn't seem to want to part with her, and he seemed to know that going home would cause just that. The magic would be gone, and reality would be too quick to sink back in._

_"Let's go dancing," he whispered in her ear. He took her to the club where they used to go, and hadn't been for a long time, a place where they could go and Rose wouldn't be groped and Tom wouldn't have to have his security detail following him around._

_The club was not well known, for good reasons. It was highly exclusive, providing the same atmosphere as any good London nightclub, but carefully protected. The people who went there wanted to party, but trouble was not allowed. The usual rowdiness and drugs and lewd behavior could be saved for the public, if that's what the rich and privileged wanted, but if they wanted to dance, drink and cavort and not wind up in jail the next morning, The Sandman_ _was where they went._

_She and Tom spent a little time at the bar and then reclining in an exclusive space filled with comfortable couches and chairs, watching the action. But then Tom got her down on the dance floor and reminded her that no matter how strict and controlled he seemed when in a business suit, he could still break one off and shake it like gangbusters_ _._

_That must have been how it happened, Rose realized. The alcohol, the dancing, the closeness, Tom touching her, Tom laughing, Tom wrapping her in his blue striped suit coat like she was some precious thing to be protected, Tom looking at her like he wanted to devour her._

_Which he nearly did._

_So when Rose woke up the next morning, half-buried under him, she knew it wasn't a dream this time._

_Oh, how she had fucked up._

_"Where are you going?"_

_She'd made it half-way to the door before he asked her. She'd snuck into his (formerly their) bathroom and found his heavy robe on the back of the door in its customary spot. She really thought he had fallen back asleep in the time she'd been locked up in the loo, lecturing herself, pacing, wondering how in the hell she was going to disentangle herself from this, what excuses she was going to give, but now realized that was just stupid wishful thinking. He looked a lot like he had looked yesterday morning, rumpled and hung-over, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that clearly belied his innocent, bedraggled look._

_"Back to my room," she said, trying to give him a reassuring smile and failing miserably. She felt, honestly, like she was taking a walk of shame. Or worse, that she was the one who was slipping out after a regrettable one-night-stand and abandoning her partner to feel alone and used. The guilt was too much. She would say anything to get out of that room at that moment._

_"Why?"_

_"All my toiletries are there," she said._

_"You're wearing my robe," he said, something creeping along the corner of his mouth as he stared at her, amused and...something else._

_"I'll return it," she promised. Damn thing made her feel like she was taking him with her, it smelled so strongly of him. Not surprising._

_He let out a sigh. "Why are you leaving, Rose?" he asked again._

_She dug for a truth. "My tub is bigger. I'm going to go have a soak."_

_"Sounds nice."_

_"Yes, well, inviting you would be counterproductive." She relaxed her smile, turned again._

_"Will I see you later?" he tried, although his voice was still so calm._

_"It's...five. On Monday. I have work in a few hours," she said._

_"Another late night," he said softly._

_"Possibly."_ **Definitely,** _she thought in her head._

_"Have a good one, then," he mumbled, and she tossed him one last shaky smile before escaping._

_In the tub, water nearly white with bath salts, she realized that this was not going to work. She was going to break eventually. She loved him too much, but her conscience could no longer be silenced. She had to leave._

_She thought of the look on Tom's face that night, over a month ago, at dinner, when he had told her point blank: "You can't leave me, Rose, you just can't." She knew the uselessness of that path. And she had been foolish to try it, she realized now. She knew things about Tom, about Ben, about Mark, his partners, and she would be dangerous let loose. Tom, in his affection for her (she couldn't really believe it was love, even after last night) obviously was trying to deter her from that path. Trying to reel her back it. Trying to "sort" her, as if she were a problem. And it was working._

_Sinking into the almost-unbearably hot water, she gave herself to blankness and calm._

_She knew now what she had to do._

_Over the next six weeks, she began moving money, slowly. Wanting to see if anyone would notice. The account she had used for personal expenses served nicely, although she could see later how people might have suspected that she "embezzled." But it was her money, years of salary saved because Tom always insisted on paying for everything. Plus some extra for investments here and there that had paid off._

_She didn't realize she had missed her period until the second one didn't come, either. It didn't take a lot of calculating to realize the obvious. The three pregnancy tests just confirmed it._

_She'd stopped all birth control three years ago, when she had thought getting pregnant would force Tom's hand to marry her. She knew he wanted children. She knew he wanted to be a father. They had talked about it...so many times._

_The last two weeks were the hardest. Not telling him. Knowing how happy he would be, how excited, wondering if it would be enough to get that man she'd once known to come out again, maybe bring a new level of enthusiasm to the slowly lowering slump of his shoulders. Worried she was making a huge mistake, and terrified not to risk it._

_Then, one bright morning following a normal day of work with a few extra pieces of filed paperwork, she dressed in her track suit. She called a cab from a burner phone she had bought only a few days ago, and gave it directions to wait several blocks down from the Hiddleston Estate, far enough away so that security would just think it was for another home. She left every single personal piece of identification behind in a drawer at the bottom of her wardrobe. In her handbag, she had the ID and passport she'd bought with her good money a short while before from a reliable source, so it couldn't be traced. She went to the bank the day before and withdrew all the money from the account, using a single cashier's check and a stack of bills totaling ten grand. Anything else would rouse suspicion -- one could hardly carry two point four million pounds across the seas without someone asking too many questions. A cashier's check she could hide easily in the band of her underwear, unless they stripped searched her (which they didn't). As she was walking out of the house, prepared with the excuse that she was going for a run off grounds, she ran into Hadley._

_Who looked at her instantly and knew. All he said was, "Goodbye, miss." And went about his business._

_She made it off grounds and into the cab. she made her way to the Channel and crossed into France, then bought a one-way plane ticket to Quebec. She bought a car for a couple of grand, something that would get her across the country but probably not be good for much after that, and drove down into the U.S. and west until she hit Nebraska._

And had William. Her baby. Her son, her beautiful blue eyed boy with his slowly growing dark gold curls and long winding limbs that would choke her at times with how tightly he clung to her. The thought of never being with him again...the thought of anything happening to him...she can't even decide what would be worse, knowing or not knowing.

She feels Tom behind her. His hands gently rest at her elbows, his fingers curling around her limbs, squeezing reassuringly. She feels his lips press into the back of her head, right at the crown, one of her most sensitive places, she closes her eyes and draws in a deep, steadying breath. He doesn't speak, just stands there, holding her lightly, and she could almost pretend that the last two years hadn't happened, that it's still that same day, the last time she came into the study before she finally left, and Tom's attempts at reconciliation haven't been met with her cold shoulder.

It's amazing how you can be right and wrong at the same time.

One hand drops to her hip, pulling her ever so gently back into him. "Rose," he murmurs into her hair. She can feel his cheek pressed to her, the tip of his noise against her temple. "I'm sorry. What I said before."

She gives a little nod. Surprisingly, she understood. Tom was just as angry as she was. maybe not in exactly the same way, but she'd felt it when he had disentangled himself from her arms, watched it when her head had cleared so she could watch him pace around the training room. He had tried, very hard, to hold it together. But when she started arguing with him, it had pushed him too far.

Although she doesn't think she's wrong. Ben is the only one who has touched her, outside of Tom. And Mark did _not_ touch her. Rose would know if Mark had put one single finger on her. But it really doesn't make sense to suspect Ben -- Ben is Tom's mentor. What possible reason would he have for bugging Rose? Mark, on the other hand, has many reasons. Many, many reasons...

Something cool sips against the skin of her neck, and Rose looks down to see the glimmering white opal beads that she'd worn for over four years (a first anniversary gift) draped along her chest. Automatically, she reaches for them, twisting the long strand that would hang down to her belly if she left it free, but stops herself before twisting it over her head again. She turns and looks back up at Tom, at the hopeful look on his eyes that he seems to be trying to hide.

"They _are_ yours," he says.

Rose swallows hard. She knows what it means, to wear these beads. Is she ready to take that up again?

"No obligations," Tom says, his voice a bit more...distant. At least neutral. "I just...I bought them for you. I want you to keep them. Regardless."

She loops the beads over her neck again, letting them hang down over the white fabric with the deep blue flowers, catching the faint colors that come from the incoming sunlight. Tom reaches up and brushes her hair away from the back of her neck with his fingers, pulling it out from under the second loop, and then smoothing it down.

"Thank you," she whispers.

He stares at her a moment. At the beads, then at her face. Then he turns and goes to his desk, which is a ripe mess with all the scattered files everywhere, and attempts to return it to some semblance of order.

Rose follows. She is suddenly filled with a restless energy. She can't let her thoughts settle too much on anything, as any path leads to dead ends. Thinking about William will drive her insane, trying to read Tom will yield little but frustration and unwanted longing, and she is long since out of the loop with Ben and Mark, so she has nothing to contemplate there. Instead, she does something useful. She steps around to the other side and begins to reorder the various stacks, peeking through them briefly just to see what they are, make sure she isn't mixing things up ---

And then her eye lands on something.

"Tom?" she says, her eyes still scanning the file, even though she had told herself the things on his desk had nothing to do with her. "Is this..."

Tom has pulled the desk chair -- surprisingly his chair had survived his brutal rampage -- back up and is seated comfortably, and looks up at her with a raised eyebrow. She lowers the file, showing him. His expression shifts so subtly, and he glances up at her again. Is that hope?

"I haven't interfered," he says. "I just have reports sent so I can...keep watch."

Her charity. It's still going strong. Christoph has prospered in her absence, she knew he would. The reports would be number-ridden babble to anyone else but she reads them like a second language.

"The core funds have doubled," Tom points out, even though she can see that. "And the stats for several of the neighborhoods you targeted have significantly been reduced."

She looks up at him, grateful. It's fleeting, but she feels it. Gently she reorders the file, sorting through the mess of papers. There's more in here than just the info on the charity. She moves to pull it out and resort it into its own manilla folder, but something catches her eye.

A picture is paper-clipped on top of a young woman, very young, probably just starting Uni. She hears Tom's barely concealed intake of breath, but he doesn't stop her, doesn't take the file away. Instead, he gets up from his chair and drifts over to the couch.

Rose goes through the rest of it. Tom has been aiding this woman, albeit anonymously. A few thoughts go through Rose's head -- a daughter? Tom would have had to have been a child himself when she was born, but it wasn't inconceivable. But no, the girl looks nothing like Tom, she's pale and red-headed, and she reminds her of someone Rose just can't place--

She looks up at Tom, who is sitting on the couch, legs crossed, one ankle resting on the other knee. He looks up at her, a strange expression on his face. Expectant? His eyebrows are slightly raised but there is no disapproval there, just...tension.

"Who is this young woman, Tom?" Rose asks in a soft voice.

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows before replying. "You don't recognize her?"

Rose shakes her head.

Tom picks at invisible lint off the pant leg's cuff. "She is...the sister of the young man. Who attempted to mug you." He does not say anything else.

Memory comes, cold and slicing. Tom promising her that the sister would want for nothing. He had kept the promise, even when she...

Another shock. She is starting to feel numb to them. Rose nearly drops the file, just barely manages to put it down without spilling it everywhere. The urge to go to the couch and throw herself on Tom is very strong, but after two displays, she is sure that a third would be too much. So instead she walks over and sits beside him, and very carefully she grasps his hand to her lap and clasps it between her palms.

A silence passes between them. She thinks that maybe Tom wants to say something, the way he looks at her every now and again, but Rose's brain is churning. Just a few hours ago the thought of killing another human being filled her with revulsion.

But now...William has been taken. And she knows blood will be shed to get him back.

For the first time ever, she wants that to happen. She wants the people who took him to pay with pain, with suffering. She grips Tom's hand tighter as the adrenaline creeps up her neck with the thought of doing it herself. If they harmed her baby, she would want to kill every last one of them herself.

"Tom," she whispers, but no, she can't even bring it up. Her throat closes, refusing to let out another word. He will misunderstand if she brings it up. He would not want to talk about it, certainly not want to answer her questions. He has always treated her like a delicate doll, tried to keep all the violence and awfulness away from her, even though such a thing wasn't possible even in a normal reality. But if anyone would understand, it would be him.

For the first time, she wonders. If he had thought that the poor, stupid child who tried to mug her had been a real threat, that he had hurt her, the urge to punish the child would have been strong. The level of protectiveness that Tom exuded when it came to her would have been poked like an angry bear. And with someone like him, who could do as he liked, what would have prevented him? Maybe he hadn't meant to...kill the kid. Maybe it had just gotten out of hand.

She wants to ask, because she is afraid of this desire for violence in her. She wants to understand how it got there, how you can be pushed to that level of hate.

Because she feels it now. She loathes the people who took William. She doesn't care who they are. She just wants them all dead.

Tom is squeezing her palm against his, and she realizes she has dug her nails into him. "Rose?" he says. "What is it?"

She looks at him, her face frozen in a frown of curiosity. "I...there's something I want to know. But I'm afraid you won't tell me."

Tom doesn't say anything to counter this. It would not be the first time he refused her information.

She whispers, afraid of her own words, "What does it take...to kill a man?"

His from deepens. "I don't...."

"When you've..." God she can't say it. She can't voice it. Every single way she tries it comes out horrible. "In those...situations. When it becomes...necessary. How? I mean...I'm not judging," she adds quickly, when she feels him begin to withdraw his hand. Worse, she doesn't know exactly what she wants to ask. "How do you decide? How does it go to that...extreme?"

He stares at her for several moments. Then, he licks his lips, a tell-tale nervous gesture that gets her hopes up. "There are different situations," he says quietly, calmly. "There are business situations where it is...necessary." He gives a little shrug, as if he just can't find another way to put it. "You simply accept that it must be done and carry it out."

"And...others?"

"Usually the result of high emotions. A crime of passion. You don't start there. You simply… come back to yourself, to discover the moment." And he turns rather pale at this thought, and his expression withdraws, and Rose senses he's said too much to her, more than he wanted.

"Which one was...that young man? I don't want to...fight about it. I just want to know."

He scowls. "Why, Rose?"

"Please. Humor me."

The scowl falls back, and he seems a bit caught. He shrugs one shoulder, the one not attached to the hand trapped on her lap. "I didn't intend it," he says slowly, not looking at her, eyes unfocused. "It started as just...a conversation. You have to understand ...someone with a reputation as mine cannot allow things like that to happen, even randomly. A demonstration was necessary."

"But?"

He pulls his hand away, but not harshly. He is clearly uncomfortable and trying hard not to show it. "Things happen. Would it have made any difference to you why or how? Would you not have left?"

She considers, wants to shake her head, but cannot stop thinking about how much she bays for the blood of those who have her son. She can see how that kind of rage can multiply, how you can start with simply wanting to "correct the situation" and have it devolve into madness and murder.  
  
"What are you thinking about, Rose?" Tom asks, finally meeting her gaze again.

"Which one will this be?" Rose asks. "When you find William. Will those people die because it's business, or because it's passion?"

Tom reaches over, grasps her upper arm and pulls her closer to him. He leans forward the rest of the distance so that their faces are very near, and she can see the freckles in his fine skin, the point of his noise, the flecks of gold in his blue-green eyes. "I will tolerate no threat, Rose," he says in that calm, cool tone. "I protect what is mine. I protected you, and I will protect him. You do know what that is going to cost, don't you?"

She nods, almost eagerly.

His lips press together, and he doesn't quite nod back, but they seem to reach some kind of silent understanding. So this is how it happens. It's all well and good to pass judgment on others, but when it's your flesh, your blood, things are different.

Rose doesn't quite know how she feels about that.

Tom leans back and releases her. "It's been a stressful morning. That's an understatement," he adds under his breath, dryly. At her half-smile he continues. "I haven't eaten anything today and I assumed you had not, either. I asked the chef to make French toast."

Her half-smile almost stretches into a full one. He's trying to distract her. The opals, the charity, even the sister and the conversation he'd entertained. And now French toast.

"I'm starving."


	21. Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

Tom chews, considering the syrup-bread-and-egg mixture in his mouth at the moment. He hadn’t gone so far as to request powdered sugar, thankfully. French toast had been a favorite of hers and he’d wanted to indulge her – perhaps distract from her heartache for a moment or two. The texture and overly sweet quality of the food certainly distracted him. Distracted and didn’t very much satisfy. He’d much prefer his usual eggs, sausages, and the like.

Tom’s request for French toast had been met with surprise. The chef had obeyed, of course, but the surprise had been there all the same. A strong English breakfast, the likes of which would help him think, that’s what he needs right now. Wordlessly, the chef starts pulling out a few of the needed supplies to give his employer what his stomach desires. His staff knows him well. For a man that places his trust with so few people in this world it is a meaningful thing. Or maybe it can be argued that he is a creature of habit.

Their presence at the small table in the corner of the estate’s expansive kitchen also caught his staff off guard. It was unusual for Tom to eat anywhere other than the dining room. But one of the last times they’d dined together in there Rose had thrown her food across the room. Considering their emotional states right now, Tom decided on breakfast at the tiny kitchen table. For one thing, the surfaces in the kitchen were much easier to clean.

The sizzle of the sausages cooking brings his thoughts back to the needed tract: the bug that he had removed from the nape of Rose’s neck. Rose, who had been his voice of reason despite her own turmoil. Rose, who would not let him go after one of his equals without thinking things through first – at least he entertained the notion that that had been the reason she had held her ground in the doorway of the training room. Mark makes sense cast in the role of the threat against them. If he can convince her of that then they can deal with the threat together, so long as they can continue to communicate with one another.

He has to survive breakfast. _Then_ he can go talk to Mark.

Tom stabs his fork into the next bite of food with a controlled motion. Talking isn’t what he wants to do but it is what is needed of him, what Rose needs of him. Talk and then make good on his promise. There won’t be any reservation in his application of justice. There are lines that one doesn’t cross. You don’t go after another man’s family. After all, _everyone_ has family.

Rose lifts a bite of food to her mouth. She is markedly calm right now, even if she only picks at the sugar-coated sustenance set before her. The sounds of his usual breakfast being concocted are saving them from a true silence.

Hadley has yet to reappear with any news regarding Margaret. Tom judges this to mean that she is still hanging up on him with every attempted call. She would need to relent so his men could collect her. It would expedite the process anyway. She would have details, needed details, regarding those that took William. At least they knew she was alive – her few utterances before she’d hung up the first time assured him of that.

It was a shame he hadn’t thought far enough in advance to record the exchange. If he had then his security team could be playing it over and over again, analyzing every detail to try to reveal who had taken his son. They would have found something by now, and he would be well on his way to pummeling the answer from Mark.

But Rose swore Mark hadn’t touched her – that there had been no point when he could have placed the bug on her. Could he ask her again without the conversation devolving into an argument? He watches a blob of syrup drip down from his fork to the plate below. Perhaps, he blinks and chides himself for not thinking of this sooner, she would regain her appetite if she knew her parents were safe. She’d always been close to them in the past. It would prove difficult, since her father’s bad opinion of him could only have amplified, but the thought of her losing them, too…

“If you like, we can bring your parents here. Or at least suggest that they alter their usual routines until we know the threat to,“ he hesitates on how to word the notion, “the threat is contained.”

She sucks in a breath and drops her fork down onto her plate. The clatter of silverware to dish makes Tom wince. The thought that the threat could pass onto her parents as well obviously hadn’t entered her mind until his suggestion.

Rose’s eyes widen momentarily before she squeezes them shut and shakes her head. “Oh Tom. You don’t think…? No. I don’t think I can make that call. My father… It was so difficult admitting to them that I hadn’t reached out to them until after William was born. Even then I drove for hours before mailing packages to them to allow contact. They weren’t happy about it but it was the few photos and a disposable phone or nothing.”

The steps she had taken to keep herself cut off from everyone she cared about, the life she had been forced to live – every glimpse she afforded him dealt him another wound. Though it smells divine he ignores the plate of food set before him. Instead he stands and drags his chair around the table to settle beside her, pulling his mobile from his pocket in the process. “I’ll call them. Just tell me the number.”

Her eyes are fixed on his fingers as he dials the number and presses send to connect the call. Her breathing rate is increasing and she’s worrying at a seam in her clothes. “Don’t tell them that William’s missing.”

Tom stills her hands in her lap by placing one of his own over them. “Alright. But they need to be on guard. I’ll tell your father to be wary. Perhaps take an unplanned vaca…. Sir?” Tom stalls his sentence as the line connects. He gets one word out before he hears a snort and a click. He frowns and pulls the phone away from his ear under Rose’s apprehensive gaze. “Rose, I think he hung up on me…”

A short coughed laugh alerts the both of them to Hadley’s entrance into the room. He had been standing there long enough to hear Tom’s comment. “Now you know how it feels.” Upon Tom’s sharp glare he takes a few more steps towards the table. His eyes don’t stray from Tom until the last possible moment. “Margaret stayed on the line to make one thing clear before hanging up on me. Again.” He nods towards Rose. “She won’t talk to anyone but you, miss.”

Tom tries the number again as Hadley hands the other phone off to Rose. He waits while the phone rings and rings and rings – then finally, blessedly, her father answers again. And once again he gets out a single word before her father speaks. “How the hell did you get this number, Hiddleston? Where is Rose?! Where is my girl?”

“She’s here, sir. With me.” Tom can’t help but allow his eyes to drift over to Rose. She is concentrating on her own phone call now, mercifully.

Her father sputters over the line. “How the fuck did that happen? I haven’t laid eyes on my daughter in two goddamned years because of you and suddenly she’s back with you?”

Tom shifts in his chair to move it back from the table before standing. This phone call had been his idea, he needs to follow through. “Yes. Sir. A change that occurred only recently. Circumstances dictated that I act to ensure her safety. I assure you…”

“Her. Safety.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hiddleston, if you wanted her safe you should have left her alone.”

Again his eyes stray to Rose, who is still seated at the table. She’s nodding, curled slightly in her chair as she talks on the phone. He can’t tell, from his vantage point, if she’s getting good news or bad. Good. He hopes for good. Quietly he mutters in agreement, “Yes, sir. I know.” He waits for more accusations but he has thrown her father off his tirade by agreeing with him. “I’m calling because we are concerned for your safety at the moment.”

Another beat passes before her father replies. “What did you do this time Hiddleston?”

If he had any idea what had happened to incite someone’s rage to the point they would attack those he held dear, or had any clearer knowledge of who it was that he’d wronged, he would be remedying the situation rather than standing in his kitchen making a phone call. “Have you noticed anyone unfamiliar taking a particular interest in you or your wife?”

Her father huffs out a laugh as he continues his thought. “ _You_ brought these circumstances into her life. _You_ and your _influence_ are what forced my daughter into having a child out of wedlock. Alone, and on the run. I’ve been watching for unfriendlies, or you, for two years now. Ready for whichever showed on my doorstep first. I figured you’d come back and put us all in jeopardy.” He takes a breath, finally answering Tom’s query in his roundabout way, “Suffice to say I’ve got my bunker fully stocked.”

Hadley is dividing his time watching both conversations take place. Rose motions for a pen and paper, and Hadley supplies both quickly. When she’s finished looping something on the page she spins the sheet with her fingertips to push it towards Hadley. “They’ll be at that address in an hour, waiting.”

“They?” Tom asks.

“They. Her family is coming too.”

Hadley accepts the paper and is off again. Rose stands to pace through her conversation as well. Just before she turns away from him Tom sees that her eyes are starting to rim with red.

“Put my daughter on.”

Her father’s words snap Tom back from his close examination of her features. “She’s occupied with another call.” Tom clenches his jaw while he ignores the snort of disbelief. The man can believe what he likes, he’s telling the truth. He’s actually never lied to the man – perhaps chosen words to suggest other meanings but never outright lied.

“Will, then, though at this hour he should be down for a nap. Or is my grandson also unavailable?”

He should have predicted this would be a request. “Will…” Rose turns her at the mention of her son’s name to twitch out a silent: _No._ Tom nods to her. He has no intention of letting the whereabouts of his son slip out during the conversation. How can he best sidetrack her father? He turns away so he doesn’t see Rose’s response. She’s paused her conversation with Margaret in order to listen to Tom’s exchange with her father. “Would you consider coming to stay with us, sir?” By the time her parents arrived in London he will have already found William and will have everyone safely confined to the estate. He will – _he will_. There is no budging on that internal promise.

“One minute Margaret –” He nearly laughs but manages to hold onto his calm demeanor when he hears Rose quickly mutter and tap her finger on the table to try to get his attention. She isn’t standing within arm’s reach or she would surely be poking him sharply with her finger. She hisses his name, “Tom!”

Her father’s response isn’t nearly so amusing but at least he knows his question had the desired effect. “We’ll take our chances here rather than be under your thumb. If this threat is credible and not just a ploy to tempt her back in… I can’t imagine someone out there worse than you.” For the first time Tom hears Rose’s mother in the background, but he can’t understand what exactly she’s saying. He is straining to listen so the boom of her father’s amended statement rocks his eardrum. It sounds as though he’s delivering the words through gritted teeth. “We _appreciate_ the offer, Hiddleston, but we are safer where we are. At the moment. When they _are_ available we would appreciate it if you would get them to call us.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.” The request is her father’s way of dismissing him and ending the phone call. It’s also a subtle way of telling Tom not to be the one to call the number again. He never expected the man to enjoy his company before, he certainly doesn’t expect the man to like him now.

Rose still has the burner phone pressed to her chest when he turns back to face her. He glances from the phone to her face before pulling a chair before his place setting again. “Your father would like a word when you’re able.”

His food is entirely cold. Reheating the eggs is impractical – they’ll dry out – but the sausages can go right back in the pan. The chef had hurried from the room as soon as the two phone calls had begun, as was common practice for the staff in the household. A lingered presence could be mistaken for eavesdropping, though Tom typically fielded as many calls as he could in his study. He stands, swipes the eggs into the trash bin and heads to the stove to begin the process of creating another breakfast for himself. Just because he usually utilized the skills of a chef didn’t mean he didn’t know his way around the kitchen.

He finds Rose still staring at him when he retrieves the carton of eggs from the refrigerator. “Yes?”

“Don’t _yes_ me, Tom. You invited my family here. What were you thinking? What would we tell them when they arrived and found that…” She can’t bring herself to complete the sentence.

Talking with Margaret may have provided some small comfort but she isn’t steady enough to say Will’s name. He continues the action of cooking his breakfast. Still fresh from use, the skillet doesn’t take long to reheat, the sausages to sizzle. He needs her sharp. It is easier to hold the bloodlust at bay when he’s having to lock himself down because of her presence. He can test her state of mind with a question regarding Will. If she spirals at the mention of his name he’ll give her a task to occupy her while he works to retrieve their son on his own.

He turns away from the skillet to talk to her. “What does Will like for breakfast?”

She stills at his query and he worries momentarily that she’ll snap at his seemingly pointless question. Instead she smiles at her plate, the half picked through and the now cold food. She brings her eyes up to meet his, then glances at the stove and his currently reheating meal. “He likes spicy things. Sausages. Like his father. He’s been off formula for a few weeks. We’ve been enjoying exploring new textures.”

 Tom narrows his eyes, her delight in sharing the memory with him swept aside for the moment. In the report Ethan had detailed every moment of cataloguing Rose’s apartment in Nebraska. The thing that had initiated the whole sequence of events was Paul’s discovery of a bottle of formula in her refrigerator. He flicks his fingers in the air at her, “Say that once more.”

“We’ve been exploring new…” Rose tilts her head to the side.

He doesn’t blame her for her confusion. Maybe he just misheard her statement. “No. About the food, and formula. You kept a bottle around for ah, just in case?”

Rose arches an eyebrow at him. “No. Every last bit of Will’s baby things were donated to charity once Will was past the age of needing them. We lived light on material possessions, ready to move if the need arose.”

That – that didn’t track. The first thing that Ethan had highlighted was that Jacob’s discovery of the baby bottle was how they’d realized Rose had given birth. If she’d donated everything, where had the bottle come from?

Then it clicks.

_Someone has been toying with him from the start. The bottle had been a plant._


	22. Tempest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rose]
> 
> [And just as an added reminder - Tempest, for the purposes of this story, is played by Nathan Fillion.]

Tom is staring at her. There is something whirling around in that brain of his, and Rose doesn't know what it is. This shouldn't surprise her, but after the familiarity, and the intimacy of the entire morning, and the night before, she had sort of started to feel like she knew him again.

Her food, already unappealing to her roiling stomach, is now stone cold and completely inedible. She picks at it to maintain appearance and nibbles on something here and there, but now there is just no point. Not with the way Tom is looking at her.

The hissing on the stove behind him drags his attention back and he grabs the pan off the flame before his sausages start to burn. The sausages...Rose feels her throat tighten and the panic wants control of her again but she pushes through it. She has to be more pragmatic, she has to focus and follow Tom's lead.

Tom's jaw is working. That twitching muscle is hard to miss and Rose concentrates on it, finding it something to grasp at.

"There was a bottle of formula in your refrigerator," he says as he readjusts the flame and turns the sausage. "That's how...Ethan and my men were able to put it together. That you'd had...a baby." He looks at her, his eyes flashing something indiscernible at her for a moment and then turning away. Suddenly breakfast has become a lot more important. Either that or he's just trying to keep himself steady.

Rose turns this new information, about the formula bottle, over in her brain. She has to say it, no matter how much risk is involved. She can't hold back. "I did not leave a bottle of formula in the fridge, Tom." She laces her fingers together, holding onto herself to keep steady. "Even if Will was still taking a bottle now and then, he'd been gone for a few weeks. There was no need...and I was thorough in cleaning everything out. I know I was."

He turns back to the little table they are sharing, setting his now hot plate of food back in his spot. He sits down, his fork scraping through the eggs. He looks now like he has no intention of eating any of it. "If it was in the back? Forgotten? You have to be sure, Rose."

Rose presses her fingers to her temple, rubbing. "I was thorough, Tom." She keeps her voice calm.

Tom drops the fork. "It was a plant," he growls.

Rose turns her eyes to look up at him but keeps her head still bent, elbows on the table, through the fringe that has fallen in her face.

"Someone is toying with us," Tom mutters. He turns his blazing eyes to her. "Do you still think I should wait to confront Mark?"

Rose drops her hands. Her plate of food has been pushed away and she no longer cares about pretending to have eaten any of it. The fact that William has been taken is bad. The fact that all of this is some kind of elaborate set up is much, much worse. Someone wanted Tom to find out about William, and wanted him to find out in a particular way. Wanted to set him off, on her, while she was here and at the mercy of his hospitality and protection. And had bugged her so they could have a front row seat to the show when he found out.

Someone was trying to pull Tom's strings. They had to pull back. As insane as it was making her, thinking about what was happening to her baby, one thing was certain -- Will was important, to whoever had him. And people did not abuse things that were important. Will may be scared, but it was unlikely that he was being hurt. Someone had gone through enormous effort to expose his location. Someone who was capable of knowing everything about her while she was in America, watch her carefully, and then act accordingly when she was taken back to London.

Who would know about that?

"Tom," Rose says, her voice slightly hoarse as she struggles with a serene tone. Tom's temper is teetering on the edge and she doesn't want to tip him. Also, he has been staring at her pretty much the entire time, waiting for her reply. "Who did you contact in America, to bring me here?"

"A relatively new associate. August Tempest." Tom's voice is tense, brittle. Maybe he is seeing what she is seeing.

She frowns. "Have I met him?"

"No, you never had the opportunity."

"Maybe it's time I did." She sits up. The old instincts are kicking back in. It's not so different in business -- find a lead, follow it. Put the dots together. She forces her tone to be neutral, business-like. "He might have information on the men who were watching me. I mean, if he's important enough to garner your attention, he would be well connected. And there is no way he would have gone in to retrieve me unless he knew the situation. I'm sure he does."

"So we should chat with him," Tom murmurs. He pushes away his cooling breakfast, completely uninterested in eating. "What time is it in America?"

He gets up and heads swiftly for the study. Rose dogs his heels until they reach it, in the process motioning for Hadley, who has finally emerged in more formal attire after dealing with Margaret and the phone, to follow them. Confused, Hadley obeys, and Rose feels a pinch of sympathy for him. He's been caught in this mess since last night and doesn't seem to be able to get out of it. But she comforts herself, knowing that Tom pays him well for his troubles.

"Tom," Rose says once they are in the privacy of the disheveled room, "you can't call this man yourself."

Abruptly, he stops and turns. "And why not?"

"It smacks of desperation," Rose says. Quite frankly she's surprised she has to explain it to him. "It's going to make him think something is wrong. And we don't want anyone to know that. We have to control the flow of information. You taught me that."

Tom scowls at her, then looks at Hadley.

"I can make the call from your mobile, sir, and then patch it through to your laptop," Hadley says, following Rose's train of thought.

It's five a.m. in Chicago. Rose does the math in her head. It was two a.m. in California, which explains why her father was so grouchy with Tom. Honestly, she's amazed Tom was able to handle that. The tension is still rigid on his shoulders as he sits down at his desk, putting the laptop in the middle of the cleared files and turning it on.

"Do you think he'll be awake?" Rose inquires mildly from her perch on the couch.

His answer is a grunt. He's not really paying attention, he's trying to compose himself, smoothing his hair, his suit jacket.

"Tommy!" comes the greeting on the laptop as Hadley connects them. Rose instantly winces. Tom _hates_ being called that.

"August," Tom bites out in as civil a tone as he can manage. "Hope I haven't disturbed you too early."

"Oh, I'm up before the sun, you know that." Rose arches an eyebrow. Tempest is obviously a new associate, but one who seeks to make himself familiar fast. This can't have gone down well with Tom.   _He_ sets the pace when it comes to relationships -- he'd even done the same thing with her, years ago.

"There were a few things I wanted to discuss with you, August," Tom starts.

"Oh, I've told you to call me, Gus, Tommy," August says with an air that finally makes Rose get up from the couch. Instantly, Tom's hand is out, but below the level of the desk so that Tempest won't see. Tom is shoo-ing her back but she wants to see this man.

He's robust. Wide shouldered, heavy chested. Brown hair that lies smooth and thick on a rectangular shaped face. He's all smiles, and quite frankly he is ruggedly handsome. Although August Tempest does not look like any crime lord she's ever met. He is sitting in front of dark paneling, and there is a humming noise coming from the speakers -- some kind of background interference?

"Good God, Tommy," August says, his eyes moving around. "What the hell happened there? I mean, it looks like a hurricane went through your office."

Tom looks around. Rose almost smirks at the thought. _Hurricane Hiddleston,_ she thinks. And another mark against them -- they didn't think this through quite as carefully as she thought.

She's tried to stay out of the frame, but Tempest's eyes are sharp. "Oh, is that the lovely lady? Miss Rosaline?" He leans closer to the screen, and Rose can hear Tom's exhale through his nose. He did _not_ want her seen. Too late now.

"Yes, actually, I wanted to thank your men, and you, for your involvement in helping her get here safely." Tom recovers nicely, and flashes her a look that clearly says _go sit back down._

She blatantly ignores it.

"Are your men still in London?" Tom asks. It had only been last night, so there is a chance. The two who watched over her hadn't been so bad. Silent and intimidating, but not rude. They'd seemed a bit...afraid of her, actually. And they were utterly terrified of Tom.

"Oh, yes, they're still there. Taking care of some other business for me, hope that's not a problem?"

"Of course not," Tom says, although Rose hears the undertone that wonders _what business?_ "But I hope I get the chance to thank them before they return to you in Chicago."

"Actually," Tempest says, a flicker of something on his face that Rose does not like at all, "I'm not in Chicago right now. They're getting ready for me to come there."

He's in flight, Rose realizes. She looks down at Tom, being careful to step completely out of view of the screen for a moment. Tom sees the movement, and his eyes flicker to her, and she waves at him, mouthing, "He's on a jet."

Tom hides his surprise well. Hadley had left the room as soon as the call was connected, but he had left the phone within Tom's reach on the desk. Tom slides his hand over to grab it, and discretely passes it across his lap to hand it to Rose. She takes it, instantly knowing what he wants. Check the agenda.

There is a meeting scheduled for that evening. Around eight p.m., at the estate. It's circled in red. She sets the phone down beside him and Tom sees it. It's discreet.

"Ah, yes, I see that," Tom says. "Long night," he adds with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But I would very much like to thank them personally." Rose notices how Tom smiles when he says that last word -- it causes his teeth to show. Monkeys do the same thing to show aggression. "Are they currently at the estate, preparing?"

"I can...send them to you," August suggests, and Rose doesn't quite trust the pause. She had returned to the frame when she returned Tom's phone, and notices that Tempest's eyebrows are high on his head. An innocent look. Tom has the patent on innocent looks but this man is good.

"That won't be necessary. I have some early business at the estate before our meeting and I can meet them there."

"All right," Tempest says, his eyes drifting over to Rose. "Was that all? You called me to thank my men?"

"No," Tom said, "also, I wanted to know if you'd be willing to share information on the people who were watching Rose in Nebraska. I imagine you did recon before you went in to retrieve her. I'd be willing to pay."

"Oh, of course! No problem at all, Tommy! I was wondering if you were going to ask." Tempest chuckles. To Rose's ears, it sounds nervous, and he's trying to hide it. "I have to ask, though, since I'm in transit. Is this urgent? I mean, can it wait until I land?"

"The sooner the better, August," Tom says, his face breaking into that slow grin. "I don't like idle time."

"Of course not, no." Tempest brushes his finger against his lower lip. "I think I can contact my people and have them send you some data files. Should be about an hour, I hope that's fast enough?"

"That would be perfect. Thank you. But if you don't mind me asking, is there anything specific that you remember? I mean, I'm assuming you oversaw the whole operation yourself."

"Well, you know how it is, Tommy, fingers in a lot of pots. But I did put my best people on it and kept track of updates."

Tom makes a "hmmm" sound, which normally would scare the crap out of a sane person. He's not smiling anymore. But he has to know that of course Tempest didn't put her on that plane himself. "It's just that, well, Rose has told me that your people treated her with the utmost respect. But all the same, I want to be sure. I was very specific that no one mishandle her, and sometimes she can be too forgiving." His gaze momentarily shifts to her, and Rose fights back a blush. "So were there any incidents I should know of? Anything at all?"

"I would have told you if there were," August says, and his smile makes Rose think of a shark. It's almost funny, these two sharks trying to "out shark" each other.

She looks back down at Tom for a moment. His face is back under control, the Crime Lord facade she remembers. He can do it so easily with others -- with her, that mask had slipped badly in this last day. And it has, she reminds herself with a bit of a shock, only been a day since she's been returned to him. She's been seeing the old Tom so often that seeing him like this gives her a bit of a cold chill. She steps away from the monitor, goosebumps going up and down her bare arms, and she rubs them. Tom would not want Tempest to see her nervous gesture, and she is also sure it's going to distract Tom himself so she gets out of his direct eyeline.

"Trust me, buddy. I can understand you being protective. If there had been anything un-genteel I would have made sure to handle it swiftly--"

"I prefer to handle those things myself, if that's no bother."

"No, of course not! Hey, I'm on your side! Your girl is quite the hottie. I'd go through _trouble_ for a lady like that, too, if you know what I mean. Yowzah." Rose can almost hear the air quotes around the world _trouble_.

Tom's brow has creased slightly. Apparently Tempest has decided that lewd remarks about her are going to help him get the upper hand over Tom. And from Tom's face, he might be right.

"Yes, well, the data. As soon as you can manage it. I have other affairs to attend to --"

Tempest barks out a laugh that is affable and obnoxious at the same time. "Affairs! I love it! Yes, Tommy my man, you handle your _affairs_. I'll see you when I see you." And the conversation is over. The video chat is abruptly shut. Tom lets out a growl as he slams down the lid on the laptop. His eyes meet Rose's, and she feels a quip is desperately needed to break his mood.

"What?" she says, hands on her hips. "You don't think I'm hot?"

Tom sighs. "You know I think you're stunning. I just don't like his roving eye."

"You don't like Mark's roving eye, either," she says carelessly, folding her arms. "Sometimes I think you'd like it better if I wore a parka everywhere I went."

"Rose, please," Tom says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We have more pressing matters."

But still, she can't help but smile a little at the thought that Tom finds her "stunning." And the fact that she's able to bait him proves that he's still her Tom.

Tom reaches under the desk, and she hears shuffling. He stands, and brings a lock box up and puts it on the desk. He is already opening it when Rose comes around the desk to see.

It's full of guns.

"And you need these because?" Rose says, immediately alarmed.

Tom looks at her coolly. "Well, you can't expect me to confront Mark unarmed, can you?"

Her spine stiffens. It's already going to go this way? "Maybe you shouldn't confront him at all, Tom," she says.

Tom heaves a great sigh. "This again? You heard my conversation with August. I'm not getting anywhere fast doing it your way, so now we're going to do things mine--"

"Maybe I should talk to Mark," she says, rushed.

Tom stares at her for a moment. "Tell me you're joking," and his voice is eerily calm.

"No, but please, listen. You would be much better talking to those thugs. Tempest hasn't given you any reason not to still suspect him. He just managed to evade you. His men were terrified of you. I'm sure you could get much more out of them, especially with the mood you're in."

"And this means you talk to Mark....why?" His patience is strained, she can hear it in his voice. But to his credit, he hasn't dismissed her outright. That's something.

"Mark likes me," she says with a shrug. "You said it yourself, he's got an eye for me. I go in there, dressed like a piece of fluff--"

"No." Tom steps away. "No, I will not consider this." His hands are out, his eyes are flinty. Gray slate. "You are not going to go flirt with Mark."

It is Rose's turn to heave a great sigh. "It's just talking, Tom! I can handle him. I've handled him for five years! You saw us last night -- he won't try anything. He can stare all he wants, but I belong to..." she stops herself from finishing that sentence. She straightens her shoulders, steps closer and stares right up into his eyes. "I'm going with you. Where you go, I go. So put me to some use. I can do this. Don't you trust me?"

"I don't trust _him_ ," Tom says. "What is something happens? What if you get in trouble?"

Rose reaches over and plucks one of the guns from the box. It's a Sig Sauer. She pulls out the clip, checks the bullets, and drops it on the desk. Then she pulls back the slide, ejects the bullet inside, and then lets the slide click back into place. She hands the bullet to Tom.

"Nebraska is a big gun state," she says to his shocked look. His jaw is even hanging open, just a little bit. "And I lived there for two years as a single mom. I learned how to handle a firearm. I think I'll be okay."

Tom closes his mouth. His jaw is still jumping, and his eyes are still hard, but she can see the wheels turning.

"You fire one single bullet and I will be there instantly, do you understand?" he says, his voice low.

She wants to smile in triumph. Instead, she just gives him a wink. "Let me go change first. Give me ten."


	23. Errands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

Considering the pros versus the cons of leaving instead of waiting for Rose to change, Tom opts for pacing in the foyer, walking the long hallway from one end to the other. Walk to the wall, turnabout on his heel, and walk the half-dozen paces to pause at the foot of the stairs and glance up at the landing. No Rose. So continue to the opposite end of the foyer and turnabout again.

It had only taken a few minutes to confer with Hadley after relenting to Rose’s demand to accompany him. While he and Rose were at the Crime Lord estate talking to Mark and Tempest’s men, respectively, Hadley would continue to dig for any further information regarding who had been watching Rose back in Nebraska. There was also the matter of waiting to hear back from Ethan, Jacob, and Paul to alert them that Margaret and her family were safe and on their way to London.

So many variables and nothing seems to fit, no matter how he tries to bend the pieces to his will.

He alternates staring at his watch and checking the top of the stairs for her presence. The idea was that he was proving he was worth a second chance, worth allowing to experience the growth of their child. She’d said it to him, uttered those words to make that distinction and give him hope. William was _theirs_.

Once they found William he could hold to his promise, send Rose and Will somewhere safe and be involved as much or as little as she would allow. The deal she’d set up with her parents didn’t sound terribly satisfying, but he could learn to love photos and phone calls. Whatever lines of communication she would offer, he could learn to love. She’d never stay – and he can never leave. It’s in the contract. The mantle of Crime Lord is one that is removed in one way and one way only.

She appears on his twenty-seventh pass of the staircase.

Staring up at her standing there at the top of the stairs he knows he should have left for the estate while she was changing. He recognizes the deep grey dress instantly. From this angle it appears almost black but he knows the true color of the thing just as he knows every other piece of clothing held within her wardrobe. Every single piece has been committed to memory.

She’s even wearing the leather gloves he’d gotten to match – with little crop circles of bright silver studs accenting the knuckles. He’d purchased the dress to replace one of her cocktail dresses that hadn’t survived his whiskey period… At the time he’d been of the mind that she would look lethal in it.

He’s not far off in that estimation.

He hadn’t anticipated she’d wear the thing, particularly not to spend a prolonged amount of time with Mark. The plunging neckline, fitted bodice – the dress fits her just as he imagined it would. It evokes more his own darker, streamlined tastes than her gentle flowing tendencies when it comes to clothing. Well, the skirt perhaps has just enough body to it.

The fact that she’s armed – or at least is supposed to be – doesn’t faze him. “No. No, you’re not wearing that.”

Rose puts a glove-clad hand on her hip, remaining on the top landing to talk to him rather than start her descent. “You bought it for me. I’m just putting it to use. Do you want me to wear the pink one instead?”

Pink. Pink. The corner of his mouth twitches while trying to mentally sort through the dresses that he’d chosen to refill her wardrobe. He recalls a pink outfit that has an even more daring neckline, that is to say it exposed a ribbon and lace bustier.  Wasn’t the rest of that particular dress also partially sheer?

He jerks his head in the negative. “No, Rose,” he says before clearing his throat and holding out his hand to indicate she should descend the staircase. “No this one will do.”

She nods to him, triumphant. Her ten minute costume change has actually delayed them a bit longer than he’d like, but dressed the way she is the delay is well worth it. Mark will surely be thrown, just as he is in this moment. Tom clenches his jaw, biting his cheek slightly to pull his focus back where it needs to be.

Figure out the threat. Find Will.

It has helped his head, as weird as it sounds, to talk to Tempest. Permitting the Crime Lord mantle to come out allows him to set aside the whirling emotions within him for a brief period. He’ll need to keep that cool focus within reach, ready to use once they arrive at the estate. Rose’s Tom, the gentle and passionate man, will get nowhere with Tempest’s men. They fear the London Lord of Crime. They fear Tom’s rumored wrath.

Goon A and Goon B, as Tom has named them in his head, will be thrilled to learn that they are to give him their full cooperation. He nearly lets the slow predatory smile creep onto his face. While Rose is occupied with Mark he’ll learn all he can from Tempest’s men.

Hopefully she won’t ask him regarding his methods. She won’t approve of what he has planned. Not by a long shot. Or – perhaps she would – considering the circumstances. He doesn’t dare ask her. He’s not sure he’ll like the answer. Since he met her he’s tried to keep her mostly shielded from his criminal world…

Look how well that turned out.

Menace, general menace _should_ do the trick. He can manipulate them into telling him whatever details might be useful. There’s always the politics of the situation to consider. How would it look if Tempest arrived to find his men shaking off a confrontation? There’s also the fact that Ethan, Jacob, and Paul are still abroad.

He’ll weigh his options once in the room with them. It’s not like he can physically overpower the both of them at the same time.

Menace it is.

“And just where did you stash the gun?” He asks when she is finally down the stairs. Was it Rose’s gentleman being playful or the Lord of Crime asking?

Never mind the persona. It is a practical question if she’s going to go talk to Mark. She needs to be able to defend herself. He’s still mildly shocked that the woman who had so steadfastly refused to learn to handle a gun, even just to dismantle one or prep it for him if the need arose, would choose to learn to wield a weapon.

Oh how circumstance can change one’s priorities.

She hitches up the edge of her skirt to reveal the gun strapped to her thigh via a clever use of a few of her garter belts. His eyes drift away from the indicated location to further appreciate the exposed skin. She flushes and starts to lower the shimmering gunmetal colored fabric again. “I couldn’t very well use one of your shoulder holsters.”

He reluctantly pulls his attention back to the weapon to watch it disappear beneath the fabric again. “No, no you couldn’t.”

At the mention of it he adjusts his stance and feels the reassuring pressure of the leather straps flexing against his back. The shoulder holster and the weapon it holds are hidden away beneath his jacket but Rose has spotted it easily enough. If anyone at the Crime Lord estate questions him, it will be simple to explain away the fact that he is armed, citing last night’s chase through the city street.

Simple.

Not that he plans on having to explain the fact that he is early to the meeting and has brought a weapon with him – but if he runs into Ben it might be necessary.  Kingsley wants to expand the Crime Lord web – establish an interconnectedness and shrink the world down so that every corner of the globe was under someone’s control.

Ben generally frowned upon being armed while on the estate. _No need, Tom. No need. Who would be foolish enough to attack us here?_

Who, indeed.

Tom sweeps his arm out to guide Rose towards the door. They’ll have to take one of his other cars – his previously-pristine white Jaguar has already been delivered to the shop to have the damage mended.

Hadley had offered to call one of the drivers to pull a car around front while Rose was changing, but Tom had waved off the suggestion. Nobody would be driving the pair of them around but him. “If we can manage it, I’d rather you be back here before Tempest lands.” Rose starts to protest his statement but he talks sternly over her, “Too many Lords of Crime under one roof, Rose. Too many variables.”

Rose repeats the sentiment that she had uttered to him while they were in the study earlier. “Where you go, I go.” He checks her expression when she doesn’t continue to argue with him. She is frowning. “Don’t send me back to this house alone, to pace and stare at the walls.”

Tom has kept a barrier of air between them up until this point. He finally allows himself a physical connection. He presses the palm of his hand flat over her shoulder blades before sliding it across her back to settle his arm around her shoulders. “Hadley will be here.”

“It’s not the same.”

She’s pouting now. But they’re on the clock – Tempest will be landing and they need to be through with their respective ‘errands’ at the Crime Lord estate. If he had the time he would stop her right here in this hallway and kiss those beautiful lips.

He adjusts his shoulders, the aim of the motion to help the inner Lord of Crime push back and gain the upper hand once more. There is no time for such passion. He releases his grip to step forward and open the door for her, instantly finding himself missing the warmth of her body. “I need you here to confer with Hadley and Ethan. Tell Hadley to patch you through so you can talk to Margaret during the flight. Help to get her settled and learn everything you can from her. I doubt she’ll be willing to work with anyone but you.”

She’s still unhappy but at least listening to his reasoning as she walks through the door. His eyes drift down as she passes him. It is the damned dress. And the perfume. And the shoes. Oh her legs in those shoes. He’s never going to be able to get his head straight to get a decent answer from Goons A and B.

He lifts his gaze to find Rose smirking at him. “Men,” she mutters, while rolling her eyes.

They fall into a silent companionship for the rest of the commute. Tom is doing his best to concentrate on diligently monitoring their surroundings for any threat while also trying to resettle the Crime Lord mantle. Having Rose shift in the seat next to him every time the vehicle moves is less than helpful.

Once within the gates surrounding the estate he releases a deep breath. He doesn’t speak to her until he’s parked the car and pulled the keys from the ignition. “You remember where Mark’s office is?”

“Yes.” She presses her hands together once, then unclasps them and taps her fingertips to her knees, “Tom this is only going to work if I look bored – as though I’m just wandering around the estate while waiting for you.”

He nods, still not liking the concept. This is what they discussed, though. She would take Mark, he would take the Goons. “Yes.” He manages the single syllable in reply.

Tom reaches up and wraps the fingers of both hands around the steering wheel so he can focus on something other than the urge to lock Rose in the car and wander in on his own to beat the truth from Mark. Rose waits a moment before opening the car door and stepping out onto the drive. In his peripheral vision he can see her pause and lean back down to talk to him. “Alright. Wish me luck?”

He grunts in reply. She closes the door gently, but even then it feels like it is being slammed. She’s walking away from him. He clamps down on the panic that wells up – she’s not leaving him. She’s going into the building, just as he soon will, to try to track down information that will lead them to their son.

_Their_ son.

He doesn’t remove his hands, or the focus of his gaze, from the steering wheel until he estimates she’s had enough time to disappear inside. As he steps out of the car he can feel the cool, steady mantle fitting snugly back into place. The scents of the grounds, the sounds – these are all things helping to root the mantle further.

The London Lord of Crime slams the car door shut and turns to survey the building. Somewhere held within lie the answers.

Now the shark-like smile emerges.

Tempest’s Goons won’t know what hit them. 


	24. Strong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rose]

Rose feels a moment of hesitation. It is a strange thing, the measures she is willing to take. But to find her son, to have him back, she knows she would do a lot worse.

Still...it feels wrong.

This is not going to be easy, flirting with Mark, mostly because it won't be flirting. Mark flirts with her in Tom's presence just to piss Tom off. Without Tom present, she has to make it worth his while. And making it worth his while will require her to...say things.

Thin lines between truth and falsehoods.

She can't make it look like she was looking for him directly -- and she is hardly the type to be found wandering a big building like a glossy-eyed doe. But there is a way she can play this -- after all, all that nonsense did just happen last night, although so much has been packed in between it feels like weeks or months ago. And Mark was elemental in their safety, and he really didn't have to be.

Also, it was a prime opportunity to show Tom up. She had put Mark properly in his place before, but maybe now...

She finds his assistant first. Rose's height, but very blonde and elegantly figured, with big pouty lips and bedroom eyes. Rose knows that she's not employed just for her looks, but can't help but think Mark could be a little less obvious. The woman is obviously smart, as she takes a look at Rose, head to toe, and seems to know, woman to woman, that something is afoot. Still, the little smirk is not condescending. And the woman has the good sense to show deference -- she may be Mark's assistant, but Rose is Tom's (ex)lover, and that ranks her higher.

"Mr. Strong is in the parlor," the assistant tells her, and Rose smiles and heads that way. She finds Mark relaxing on one of the lounges, alone with his thoughts. When she enters, he stands, a well-bred gentleman. His dark suit is flattering -- Mark would be handsome if he had hair instead of that bald look he seems to favor. He had hair when he was younger, thick and dark, she's seen pictures.

"Miss Rosaline. May I say you look quite...striking, today?"

"You may." Rose sashays a bit, balancing perfectly on her stilettos. Her mother had made damn sure that little Rosaline could walk in a pair of heels so high she was practically on tip toe, and make it look like she was wearing sneakers. Rose has been grateful for this through most of her professional life -- say what you want about equality, but men are still men, and they always look at a good pair of legs. Her mother had taught her that, too. _You may know you're more than a pretty face, Rose, but your pretty face will get you close enough to slip the knife between the ribs when the moment is right._

"Any particular occasion for such finery?" Mark asks, arching his eyebrow. Rose wonders if British men are taught that move in grammar school, so many of them seem to favor it.

"Tom is taking me out, after he finishes his business," she says with a half-smile. "Celebrating our reunion." She shrugs one pale shoulder and gives a slight cock of her head, a dismissive gesture.

"Seems more of an evening look to me."

Rose wrinkles her nose playfully. "He has something elaborate planned that will probably carry well into it-- you know Tom, always showing off." She rolls her eyes but not dramatically. Enough to let Mark know she is not impressed.

"Hmm...well, never turn down an opportunity for a little fun, I say," he chuckles. "May I offer you a drink?"

"Jameson on the rocks, thank you," Rose says; she hasn't touched Jameson in years. Tom loves his whiskey, and being around it so often had gotten her into the habit of drinking it. She suddenly craves it.

Mark chuckles. "You've picked up some bad habits from that man."

"I've broken most of them," she says casually. "But a few still linger."

Mark pours the rich golden liquid and the ice tinkles as it starts to melt. "Two years, I'd imagine that would be enough time."

Rose knows that he wants to know where she was. She can't imagine the badgering Tom may have taken over the last 24 months from Mark, the innuendo, the veiled threats. Mark would be the first to want her "dealt with." She knows because if the position was reversed, she'd be the same way. She always knew she was a liability to Tom -- hence why she hid so thoroughly. Still, Tom could have found her...but no, now is not the time for those memories.

"Not long enough," she says with just the right edge of dry frustration in her voice. He hands her the glass and she holds it high up, carefully, so as not to let any condensation from the ice touch the leather of her gloves, and sips, remembering that whiskey may be described as "sweet" by whiskey drinkers, but by her standards its still bitter as hell.

"All on your own now for quite a bit, though?" Mark probes, pouring himself a shot, neat. He downs half of it in one sip, slow for him.

Rose shrugs. She knows her bare shoulders are one of her assets, how they mimic the rise of her chest. She knows where Mark is looking, and while it feels a bit slimey, she has to maintain. Tom would have flame coming out his ears right now if he could see how Mark's eyes drift and his eyebrows quirk in appreciation.

"I don't have to tell you that Tom can be rather...controlling," she sighs. "Wouldn't even let me stay in the house by myself."

"Yes, well, Tom usually doesn't waste his energy without reason." Oh, he's really pushing. Rose gives him a sweet smile.

"What, think he's afraid I'll disappear again?" she gives a giggle that is just this side of normal. "Well, everyone needs a break. Especially from Tom."

Okay, that's enough. Any more and she's going to give the game away.

"Two years is much more than a break." He's not going to let this go, she realizes. She has to placate him, which will give her more of an excuse to put down Tom. But if Mark was the one listening to their conversation, then he would know all of this already. Which pushes the doubts Rose already had from before farther to the front. Still, he could be playing her. Although, having been around Tom for so long, she's gotten good at spotting liars. And Mark doesn't seem to be faking his interest.

"Yes. It's funny how you think things would be more permanent than they turn out to be," she sighs (again). She leans against the back of the couch, stretching her legs out before her, ankles crossed. Mark stands close, almost over her, where he can get the best view. "But when Tom calls, what choice do I have? The perks of being a kept woman."

Mark frowns. "Such talk from you? Here I thought you were an independent business woman. Although you walked away from that charity you started fast enough. Find more interesting pursuits?"

_Like raising a child_? Rose pushes past the knot that forms in her stomach at the thought. She suddenly doesn't feel like doing this. It makes her sick -- her child is in the company of bad men, and she's playing the seductress? _Yes, anything to find him_. She viciously pulls herself together. The strain comes out in her voice, but it works. "You think I ever paid for anything the years I lived under his roof? Even this--" she sweeps her hand down the shimmering deep gray fabric. "All bought and paid for." She gives him a look that lets too much truth about her resentment slip through -- but it's for a higher good, she reminds herself. "All about control."

"I'm sure he just wishes to make sure you're happy." Oh, there it is. His fake tone. He's playing her as much as she's playing him, but now at least she can see it.

"Hmmm...well, considering the lengths he went through when I returned...and I meant to thank you, actually. I know I wasn't very nice last night."

"You were tired and stressed. It's understandable." His voice could give Tom's a run for its money. Tom's is smoother, more velvety, but Mark is a predatory growl several shades deeper, and it vibrates. She doesn't want to imagine what that voice would sound like against her skin in a darkened room. Mark's teeth are far from the straight, white perfection of Tom's. Although the man usually refrains from flashing them, when he does she's noticed the fang-like protrusion on one side of his mouth -- it's not attractive.

Rose shakes her head, being careful not to bat her eyes in too obvious a manner. "We wouldn't have made it out without you, Mark. Dead truth. I thought Tom was going to kill us both when he spun that car -- he should have listened to you."

Mark chuckles. "Must have destroyed him to harm his baby Jag," he says, downing the rest of the Jameson and pouring himself another shot.

Rose leans forward, extending her arms to cross them at the wrist right on her knee. It accentuates both her chest and the curve of her neck. "Oh, it was rather amusing to see him trying not to fume about it. I thought that vein in his forehead was going to explode."

They both laugh. When the laugh passes, Rose holds his eyes. Her auburn hair has fallen in a mass of waves over one shoulder, leaving the other side bare.

"I'm sure," she says, voice so carefully casual, "that you three have dealt with whoever was behind that little attack." She pauses, cocking her head just a bit. "I'm sure that kind of behavior isn't tolerated in your town. Certainly not against one of your own."

Mark shifts a little, and looks away. Rose has spent so much of her life trying to read the thoughts of others -- Tom taught her so much about other people's tells. It wasn't a criminal trait, it was just good business to be able to read others' faces. What she sees in Mark -- she can't quite place it. He doesn't seem like he's hiding anything other than whatever he's always hiding. And honestly, if a woman whose child you just kidnapped came waltzing into your presence dressed to the nines in the middle of the day, flirting with you -- wouldn't you be suspicious? And there is not a whiff of distrust on Mark. Not that he trusts her -- but he simply doesn't see her as a threat.

"We are working on it," Mark says, returning his eyes to hers. "Although, I'm sure Tom grilled you thoroughly about who those people could possibly have been. After all, you're the deciding factor."

"Me?"

"Certainly. All was peaceful until your pretty face returned to town." He narrows his eyes just a bit but his smile is steady. "And then suddenly a mad chase through downtown London? Complete with helicopter rescue. They must have wanted you pretty badly."

"You think they were after me?" She tries to put just the right amount of disbelief in her voice, and it's not that hard -- she knows she was being used as bait for Tom. But the thought of them being after her as well...what import is she? She's incidental, in the big scheme. Tom and William are the important players, and Will only because he's his father's son. A legacy. "But I'm nobody."

"I'd hardly say that."

"Oh, Mark, please," she laughs, the disbelief becoming stronger. "Tom was clearly the target. Aren't people always trying to kill one of you at some point in time during the work day?"

The joke falls flat. Mark is looking at her steadily, still with that frozen smile. "You're too modest, Rosaline," he says in smooth tones. "You've spent enough time here, I'm sure you've heard things."

"I make it a point to never listen," she says, standing up straight and turning to him. "But do you see me that way, Mark? Do you see me as someone worthy of...elimination?" She inches closer. "Am I a threat? I was gone for two years, did anything untoward happen because of me?" She raises her chin, letting him have a clear look at the goods. Tom's vein _would_ explode if he could see this but she's got to get control back of the conversation. "Haven't I proven myself worthy of trust? I know how to keep my mouth shut, as well as my ears."

They stare at each other, measuring each other. Even Mark must admit that Rose made no waves when she disappeared from Tom's life. Sure, Tom had apparently experienced a severe personal hiccup because of it, but she didn't reveal secrets to enemies, legal or otherwise. She didn't blow whistles, give up the goods -- she was a good little girl just trying to be left alone. _Nothing to see here, folks, move along now_.

"I suppose you were as silent as the grave," Mark admitted.

"Well put," Rose replies in just as low of a tone. She cocks her head again, giving him a coy look. "I'd say I've proved my worth in more ways than one. Tom seems to think I'm worth bothering with, even after all this time. But maybe I'm tired of being controlled. Put on display like a pretty piece of arm candy."

"It would get tiresome," Mark says, his eyes discreet but Rose knows he's looking.

"And I think I've proved I'm more than just a pretty face," Rose nearly whispers, the effects of her red lipstick defining her full lips now grabbing Mark's full attention -- she can follow the path of his gaze. "I have ambitions."

"I would agree with that." Mark's chuckle is so low, it's hardly more than a vibration through his words. "Especially about the ambitions."

She quirks one corner of her mouth, causing her lips to half-pout, half-smirk. "Tom didn't find me," she whispers, "until I was damn good and ready to be found. But I think I've gotten a little bored with always having to lead him around by his fine English nose."

Mark's chuckle was a little louder. "Don't let him hear you say that."

Her smile widens a touch. "It is tiresome, a man who can't control his urges, or temper." She holds Mark's eyes. "A lot of bluster doesn't mean you get things done. I need someone who gets things done." She has slowed her voice, lowered it, and is accentuating her words very carefully. She must think about each word that comes from her mouth.

"And what sort of things would you need done, _Rose?_ " Mark whispers. He's never called her that -- only Tom ever called her that. Even her father nicknamed her Rosie when she was little. The intimacy of the name in Mark's voice makes her belly shrivel up and what little breakfast she ate want to reappear. But she must hold steady.

She has held his gaze without flinching, hardly without blinking, for several minutes. She moves just a touch closer, studying him hard. She can't tell if he's hiding things -- she can't see a mask. But his whole demeanor is entirely too casual for her liking. If the woman whose child you just kidnapped came to you in such a manner, wouldn't you be curious as to what she was willing to do?

"Important things," Rose goes on. "Perhaps finding something... valuable."

She must tread lightly. She can't show her hand.

"Lost something, have you?" It's not there. The flash of recognition that should have come when she talked about finding things. Finding her son. Mark, if he was responsible, would know what she was after in that minute, and for a split second she could have seen something in his face, if there was anything to see, to show her he knew what she was talking about.

But it's not there.

She nods. She could be wrong. She has to push a bit deeper.

"Something very important has been taken from me." Her voice has lost the playful edge. It's all business now, but seductive, as if coaxing a client into signing a multi-million dollar deal. But now she drives the hard edge home, letting him know in no uncertain terms that she is dead fucking serious. "Something I want back, and I don't much care how I get it."

Mark raises that eyebrow again. Genuine curiosity glimmers in his dark eyes. He is not mocking her -- he is humoring her, but unless he is a complete robot, he does not have what she wants. There would be gloating, triumph, something there. Nothing is.

"What would that be, Rose?" he asks, so very softly.

She straightens. "My freedom," she says.

Mark tilts his head to the side ever so slightly. There is a genuine disappointment in his eyes as he says, "Well, I doubt very much that you'd find that sort of thing with me."

Slowly, Rose nods. And starts to back away. She feels foolish for a moment, and fights down the flush on her cheeks. Crazy thoughts start to come into her head -- she has the gun on her inner thigh, and suddenly is terribly aware of its weight. She could pull it out, and put it to Mark's temple. In her current state she feels that she could put a gun on someone. And she could threaten to redecorate with his brains if he doesn't tell her where her son it. But if she does that, she takes the risk that he would overpower her -- and he very likely would do so, very easily -- and equally, that he would know nothing, and the effort would be wasted and the game given away. 

Of course, she could just throw caution to the wind and throw herself at his mercy. Same result.

Just then, the door to the parlor comes open and Tom stands, taking them both in. Maybe he's fighting down the glare that would come if he ever found Mark standing too close to her in the past. She doesn't notice, she's too dazed.

"Oh, here you are," he says, and how he managed to keep his voice blank, she will never know. "Shall we go?"

"Yes, of course," Rose says, and smiles briefly at Mark before marching herself from the room.


	25. Force

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

He’d gotten nowhere with the goons. Phil and Tony are their given names but he’ll stick with Goon A and Goon B until necessity dictates he re-label the pair in his head. They’d seemed positively ill when he’d walked into the room. They’d gotten their marching orders from their boss: _Cooperate fully with my London counterpart_.

Not that they’d given him any of the answers he was looking for. Tempest had been smart. Your employees can only reveal so much when they are purposefully kept in the dark. It’s a tactic Tom has used more than once. Only tell them _exactly_ what they need to know to fulfill their function. They had been given a task – get the woman, bring her to London – and that’s what they’d done.

He’d pushed the subject – they didn’t notice _anything or anyone_ out of the ordinary when they went to retrieve her?

No.

But then they hadn’t really been looking, had they.

_Could have used a little more **force**._

Tom adjusts his jacket and the shoulder holster hidden within while ignoring the sniggered suggestion. He’s been trying to shake off the ill feeling since leaving the two goons to their preparations for their boss’ arrival. The cause – the mantel or the fact that he’s no closer to finding his son – he can’t quite source. After allowing the Crime Lord a foothold the persona seems a little more difficult to cast aside than it had been to settle the mantel into place. He needs to be Rose’s Tom again before he finds her. He needs to be recognizable – she’s had ample time to come to the discovery that Mark is the one behind it all.

It’s the only solution that makes any sort of sense to him. It had to be Mark. Mark, who hounded him for the duration of Rose’s disappearance. Mark, who has always coveted the London title. Mark, who would use any means necessary to accomplish his ends.

Maybe shrugging off the mantel won’t be necessary…

He’ll know soon enough. At the end of the corridor he turns to find Mark’s office door ajar, the room itself empty.

Where are they? Where is Rose?

Mary stands – he hadn’t even noticed her there in the corner. Leggy and blonde, Mark had chosen this newer model after the last one had suffered a nervous breakdown. “Mister Hiddleston.” She seems confused by his presence. She glances down at her desk where he knows a master calendar to be.

_Yes, the meeting tonight is still the only thing on the books._ “Mary, I’m looking for Mark.” Tom keeps his even to suggest mundane matters are the drive. She hems for just a moment, just long enough to confirm that Rose is with Mark… where ever that is. “Just a few details to go over before the meeting tonight – unless he is otherwise engaged?”

The look Mary gives him now is a knowing one. After the brief hesitation at his sudden appearance she doesn’t stutter again. “Mister Strong _and Miss Rosaline_ are in the parlor.” She’d seen the way he had taken in the room and heard the hint behind the voiced query. She’s good. Maybe she’d last the period of her employment.

He begs his leave with a nod before walking off in the direction of the parlor. The door is shut as he approaches. How was he supposed to hear that anything was amiss with the door shut? He quiets the gentleman with a nudge. She’s a slightly different woman than she had been when she left him. She’s armed, for one thing.

He doesn’t knock – why knock when you want to have the element of surprise? Instead Tom just grips the handle and swings the door open to find Rose backing away from Mark. She appears fine at first glance so he turns his attention to Mark.

“So _here_ you are.” Is he supposed to be playacting that he is displeased to find Rose hidden away with his associate? They should have planned better before walking into the building.

Tom and Mark hold each other’s gaze for a prolonged beat. Each man is measuring the other for motives, weaknesses – the usual fair. Tom is also looking for something else. Tom wants to find any glint of knowing – any sort of smugness from the Manchester Lord of Crime to indicate that he is gloating – that he has finally bested his rival. Mark wouldn’t be able to restrain his glee to ‘ _finally have you Hiddleston! The London title is **mine**_!”

It comes as a surprise, then, when all he finds in Mark’s expression is curiosity, with just a hint of a sneer of displeasure that is always present on Mark’s face when they interact.

Tom swallows. Surely he should be seeing something more. Is he losing his touch? Is this the result of shifting the mantel about so frequently in the past few days? No – not even days. Day. Singular. They’re only just adding to the hours to make it more than that.

He’ll stew on Mark’s expression later. For now, his main priority is getting Rose home again. He holds out his arm, “I’m done for the moment, Rose. Ready to go?”

Tom barely has time to bid Mark goodbye before Rose has pushed past him and out into the corridor. She’s in incredibly high heels yet he’s pushing his gait to keep pace with her. There is no need to guide her along towards the car, she’s evidently intent on making it there in record time.

What happened while talking to Mark? Does this mean Mark has William? Had he missed something just now? Is Mark making some outrageous demand for their son’s return? There isn’t a moment to ask her as they beeline towards the car. He doesn’t want anyone to overhear the conversation at any rate. The car is the most privacy they can have until safely back home.

He expects her to go into detail regarding her encounter as soon as they exit the building but she doesn’t. He waits until they’re both seated, safely encased in the vehicle, before speaking. Evidently it will be up to him to press information from her… decidedly not like he did with the goons. “You weren’t in Mark’s office when I came looking.”

Rose is too busy retrieving her clutch from between the seat and the console to reply right away. Her hands are shaking slightly. Something had definitely gone down in the parlor. He’s taking his time starting up the car and driving off the estate, so he can turn around and deal with Mark if he needs to.

Again he hears a sniggered suggestion from the Crime Lord: _A little more **force** can be **fun**._

She finally pulls what she had been looking for out of her purse: her strand of opals. She brought them with her? He watches as she loops the strand quickly around her neck. No loose double loop of the strand today, but a high tight column of those round stones to form a choker. Her fingers are shaking slightly as she tries to clasp the strand. She misses connecting the clasp once, twice.

Tom lets the car idle at the end of the drive so he can lean over and take the ends of the strands from her. He closes the loop, settling the stones into place around her neck finally. He brushes a fingertip from the clasp down to touch the skin of her back before relaxing again in his seat. He continues to study her body language as she struggles for composure in the seat beside him.

She reaches up to press her fingers against the opals directly above her collar bone as she replies. Her voice quavers and she looks to be on the verge of tears. “The parlor is where Mary sent me. Where he was waiting.”

Waiting? He doesn’t like the sound of that. His paranoia chimes in. Waiting makes it sound like Mark knew their purpose… but that didn’t match what Tom had observed when sizing up the other man.

“What happened? Did he hurt you?” He’s close to putting the car into reverse and causing all sorts of confusion for the security team on the estate.

Rose refuses to return his gaze. She’s staring at her knees, unblinking. “He didn’t touch me. Nothing happened.”

“What, then? Is it about William? What are his demands?” His hands are on the steering column and the wheel now, anticipating her response. One word. All it will take is one word and he’ll unleash hell on Mark. It’s been years building between them…

“Nothing. Tom. Nothing. He doesn’t know a thing about where Will is.” The admission breaks through whatever bit of composure the opal strand has provided. “Mark doesn’t have Will. He isn’t behind it.”

Gone is the desire to spin the car around and cause mayhem. Gone is the struggle between the gentleman and the Crime Lord. Gone is the concern that he’s losing his touch – that he’d missed something when sizing Mark up while standing opposite him in the parlor.

He hadn’t missed anything. There was nothing there to miss. The cold reality of the situation hits him.

Someone out there has his child and _he doesn’t know **who**_.

Rose is shaking in the seat next to him. She’s trying to control her sobbing but tears are escaping regardless. He does the only thing he can think to do in this moment:

Comfort the woman he loves.

Screw the guards on the grounds. They can puzzle over the car sitting in the drive for a few moments more. He puts the idling car into park and turns in his seat, reaching over and wrapping Rose into his arms as best he can. He repeats the promise he made her this morning. Was it only this morning? The hours are running together for him now. At first his words are spoken towards the seatback, "I will find him, Rose. I’ll find our son. I’ll find our William." Then her bare shoulder. "I'll find him," Then her neck. "I'll find him." Her ear. "I'll find him."

They sit nestled together in the front seat of the car while she sucks in air. Her sobs and his repeated words are accompanied by the continuous hum of the car’s idling engine. Once Rose is quiet again Tom releases her, allowing both of them to resettle into their seats before driving on again towards the house.

Rose breaks the silence first. Her question is quiet, so quiet Tom nearly misses it. “Tempest’s men didn’t provide any leads?”

He scowls at the road. “Nothing helpful regarding who was watching you during your pregnancy.” A beat passes, “Plenty that might prove useful in the future while dealing with Tempest, though.” He instantly wishes he hadn’t let the thought slip out and shakes the beginnings of a smile away before she notices. He’ll allow the London Lord of Crime to gloat over those newly acquired details later. Now is not the time.

“Someone _was_ watching me, Tom.” She sounds defiant.

She thinks he’s challenging her statement? Tom raises his eyebrows, careful to not remove his eyes from the road. He nods, “I believe you. And when Ethan and the rest arrive with Margaret we’ll get more answers.”

He takes a long, slow breath. He’s already burned through what little energy gathered from the few hours of sleep he managed. And then there’s the hollowness he feels as a result of picking at his breakfast this morning. Surely Rose is hungry as well. She’d eaten even less than he had.

She’s quiet again, leaving him to battle his thoughts. He can feel the darkness within him pacing, impatient for action. Having to call upon the Crime Lord mantel and the darkness associated with it to deal with Tempest’s goons made it all-the-more difficult to ignore. He’ll sate that darkness once he finds those that have his son. The stories that circulate about him now will appear tame…

No one will dare come after his family again.

“Tempest’s men didn’t notice _anything?_ ”

Her question makes him grimace. He may not like the topic – his efforts had gotten them no closer to finding their son – but it’s better than stewing on his internal battle. “No.” When he lets his eyes drift from the road to her face for a moment he can read the next question on her face. He shakes his head, “No, Rose. Don’t ask. You don’t want to know.”

“Tom….” She says, turning halfway in her seat.

He’s purposefully keeping his eyes on the road now but watching her out of his peripheral vision. “Don’t ask me my methods, I won’t ask about yours.” His answer silences her again for the remainder of the drive. He won’t ask – not because he isn’t curious – but because he knows better. She’s already stated that Mark hadn’t touched her during the ‘meeting’, but the way Mark always took care to appreciate her figure... And the way she’s dressed? Tom knows if he dares ask, he won’t like the answer.

And once again – dwelling on the actions of the past won’t do a thing to change them.

He shakes the thoughts aside. Rose doesn’t love that version of him, the London Lord of Crime. And if he’s being honest, he doesn’t much recognize himself in that man. Not anymore. Actually, dwelling on it just feeds the pacing _thing_ within him.

She’s got the door open and is pulling herself from the confines of the car before he can pocket the keys. “Rose?” He hurries after her, catching and stopping her halfway between the car and the door to the house.

When he pulls her around to face him he expects the anger exuding from her, but not the quaking fear that he sees in her expression. Has the mere hour or so spent with the goons provided the criminal enough of an anchor to set their relationship back to how it had been the moment she set foot in London again? He is about to release her to respect her space when she reaches to secure herself to him by more than just his grip on her shoulders. It may just be a hand lightly pressed against his torso in return but it’s enough connection to convey her feelings.

No. It isn’t fear of him. It is fear of the situation. Of the loss of William. He knows firsthand how the loss of a family member can send one spiraling. He will not allow that to happen, now. He refuses to fathom the loss of a child, of _their_ child. “Rose. We are going to get William back.”

She nods, though her expression reads like she _almost_ believes him. He takes her hand to steer her around and continue towards the house, “I promise you, I _will_ return William to you.” It’s not the moment for it, but for an insane minute while opening the door for her he wants to stop everything and kiss her. It’s a desire to feel her warmth again, more than her hand clasped within his, a glancing touch or lingered hug. It’s a desire to feel something other than the twisting dark world that has consumed him these past two years.

Hadley would have news by now, something to provide reassurance to the both of them. He’ll page for any information to be brought to the study. Both he and Rose need something comforting right now and the only room in the house to offer that, as well as a place to plan, is that semi-destroyed room. It will also give him a chance to relieve Rose of the Sig in her possession, if she’ll part with it. One glance at her makes him amend that thought. Until they find William that piece is probably going to remain on her person.

Normal household routines have stalled in favor of the search for William. Doors that are usually open to reveal rooms bursting with activity are shut, effectively creating a great tunnel out of the hallway. It causes the house to feel heavy. Wrong.

Hadley hasn’t joined them by the time they reach the stairway. “Would you like to change?” It’s the only question he can think to ask in the silence. He’s ready to shuck out of a few layers himself, perhaps loosen his tie while they formulate a new plan. He has a few hours to kill before he needs to be back at the Crime Lord estate for the meeting. Rose signals in the negative and they bypass the route to the second floor in favor of continuing on towards the study.

They are almost entirely down the hallway, nearly to the door to the study when it swings open and a stranger dressed in dark hues emerges. A burglar caught in the act? Everyone pauses and stares at each other, then the man brings his arm up to aim a gun at the pair. Tom mirrors the action almost instantaneously, with the thought passing through his head: _Who the hell thinks, yea – I’ll burgle the Hiddleston Estate tonight? Sounds like fun._

The house has a security team – though they are currently occupied with the hunt for William. Tom jerks Rose to be shielded behind him just as the man adjusts his aim and fires at them. The bullet lodges into the wall corresponding to the spot Rose just vacated, high in the wall – if she’d still been standing there it would have been a kill shot.

Behind the roar of indignation at this man’s presence and the _thing_ within him rejoicing in the rush of adrenaline Tom registers the trajectory of the bullet – it had been a shot _at Rose_. Not just a poorly aimed warning shot but one meant to drop an opponent. Tom returns fire twice, the action meant to keep the man pinned down at the door to the study to allow them to retreat back down the hall.

It wasn’t the silence that had been bothering him since setting foot in the house, but the sensed presence of a stranger in the household.

Tom grunts to Rose, “Stay behind me,” as though he’d allow her anywhere else at the moment. He is hyper-aware of the weight of her hand on his back.

They are nearly back down the hall when two more men arrive to block that path towards safety. One aims his weapon at them while the other speaks into a radio. Tom’s focus is split between the three opponents now, so the words are slightly garbled to his ears. Was it “Got ‘em” or “Problem, boss”?  

A radio means more. More men, more weapons. The house has been infiltrated.

Of all the days. Why has nothing gone right since he brought Rose back to London? Never mind that irritation. Where is his security team? They would have heard the shots. They should be appearing any time now.

The closed doorways leading off the hallway provide no possible shelter for them as they face down the growing number of opponents. With the path back towards the garage blocked they have one choice, head back towards the single man that had emerged from the study. It will take them in the opposite direction of a vehicle to drive to safety as well as the location where Hadley and the security team are feverishly working away. There are a number of exits available to them, if this team hasn’t blocked them all.

Tom grins – they can’t possibly know about _all_ the exits. The one via the wine cellar was purposefully left off the blueprints to the house. He has one arm stretched back to guide Rose along and ensure she stays exactly behind him. It takes a well-placed bullet to send the man from the study back through the doorway and into the room for cover. A shot near his head – tit for tat – for aiming at Rose.

Rose still hasn’t drawn her weapon but Tom actually prefers it this way. Right now they’re aiming at her to piss him off. If she were armed and firing back at them? Well – they would be closer to evenly matched, if she had decent aim. Once again the gentleman is at odds with the Crime Lord. Protecting her innocence versus practicality of the gun fight.

No. Better to leave that gun hidden from view. The way he’s blowing through ammo he’ll need to take it from her to use before this is all over.

Shame most of his spares are in the safe in the study. All the more reason to get the hell out of the house.

The radio squawks a command and brings Tom’s thoughts around to the two men stalking the hallway. Right now there are several options in terms of routes out of the house – he needs to eliminate the radio and gain a bit of distance between Rose, himself, and the intruders before any moves are made towards the kitchen. The radio can be taken care of easily, except for the matter of then having one fewer bullet in the chamber and potentially only taking out an inanimate object.

There’s not much time to weigh his options. Once they’re to the end of the hall they have to turn right towards the kitchen or left towards the dining room and an exit to the outside world via the veranda. When they turn his intentions will seem clear to those observing: either he’s trying to run on foot or going to try to defend the homestead. It would be a natural assumption. Lords of Crime don’t back down. Hopefully they’ll think the kitchen will provide many a weapon but no escape strategy.

All these thoughts are passing quickly through his mind. In reality the actions have taken place in a matter of a few minutes. Rose is stumbling behind him as he rushes her on. It’s the shoes.

When people are chasing you with guns drawn, you sacrifice style for speed.

He’s down to the last few rounds in the chamber, and hadn’t bothered to pocket a spare clip. Basically the choice is to wound, maim, or kill. They need to have time to run, time to make it to the kitchen and barricade themselves in.  


	26. Flee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rose]

"Your shoes, Rose."

Tom's voice is strained, but not angry. Rose looks down. The beautiful, black velvet shoes with the high heels that were embossed with metallic gold, the shoes with heels so high that she was practically on her tip toes, the heels she'd been wobbling on for the last two minutes --

They had to go.

"Fuck," she grunts. There's a strap around her ankle. It will take time to undo, especially since her hands are shaking. All her earlier bravado when she'd picked up the Sig strapped to her thigh and showed off how she could unload it was completely evaporated under the weight of _actually being shot at_. The best she could have done if Mark had tried anything was shriek like a little girl. She'll be damned before she admits to Tom now, though.

Tom turns, looks at her. It's a fleeting look -- he's trying to keep them from being surrounded and it's a losing battle. He glances down.

All she can managed is to squeak, "The straps!"

Tom takes in the situation with a sweep of his eyes. He pushes them both into an alcove -- one of the doorways in this hallway is a bit deeper set than the others but if they stay here too long they're going to get boxed in. For the moment, though, it provides heavy wood for bullets to splinter.

He flips something from his pocket. Some kind of small switchblade. He flips the gun over in his hand, offering it to her handle first. She takes it almost without thinking. He doesn't need to tell her what to do -- but that doesn't stop her from staring at it stupidly for a second.

A bullet sends splinters of wood brushing against her cheek. She holds the gun up, fires back --

Tom has bent over and is at her feet. The blade goes to one strap, slicing it clean without touching her skin. His hand grasps her ankle as he holds the other foot steady. It utterly astounds her later when she can still feel his fingers as they press against her skin.

She fires a second bullet. She's hitting nothing -- maybe she's bluffing well enough but these men are probably trained killers and if she can't hit the broad side of a barn they'll know by three shots.

"Rose," Tom says as the second ankle is freed. He has even pulled her shoes off for her after unshackling them from the unforgiving strap. She knows he's not going slow but dammit it feels like he's taking forever.  "Each bullet counts."

He starts to stand, but he pauses at her skirt and before Rose knows it he has delved under it and suddenly she feels his _hand_ in exactly a place where it _should not_ _be_. She gives a startled yelp, the gun in her hand jerks and fires, and the man who had gotten brave enough to take a few steps closer to their hiding place falls over dead.

"Hey--hands!" Rose cries, cheeks crimson, as Tom completes his rise. He holds the Sig Sauer, a P238 380 ACP with pearl inlays, which had formerly been strapped to her _thigh_ , in his hand, ready to fire. He gives a quick look over his shoulder and acknowledges the dead man with a raise of his right eyebrow.

"Helped your aim," he quips, before turning and firing two shots to take out another shooter -- this seems to remove any resistance from that direction, temporarily giving them time to get out of the hallway without being shot from behind.  Rose's only retaliation is to push down the skirt, which had been ruffled by his...withdrawal. He grabs her hand and they're moving again, her shoes forgotten behind them.

The adrenaline is too much for her. This level of violence is too much for her. She's never been closer to things like this than the distance of her television screen. The loud explosions around her are causing her ears to ring and her eyes have suddenly gotten the uncontrollable urge to shut. She doesn't know where they're going, just blindly follows Tom's lead. Up, down, sideways, it doesn't matter. She just wants to get away.

If she faints, God knows what Tom will do. His grip on her is not painful but it is fierce. Not ten minutes ago he was holding her tightly against him, soothing her with promises she wanted desperately to believe but couldn't quite bring herself to, and she swears he was near kissing her at one point. So Rose plods on, following his every motion, letting him drag her left, right, and center until she realizes that he has brought her to the kitchen.

Immediately, he lets go. The heavy doors swing freely -- but thankfully they have wide handles on them, which Tom uses to bolt the door shut. He grabs something tall and skinny -- a pole from one of the rolling shelves of dry goods -- and shoves it through the handles. He dismantles the rest of the rolling shelf to get another one of the poles, and within less than a minute all four of them are holding the door shut.

It won't last. Bullets don't care about locks. They'll blast the hinges off the doors to get to them.

To get to her.

Rose saw that gun swing toward her. Her mind still sees the black point of the open chamber, and if Tom hadn't jerked her out of the way--

"Rose, stay with me," Tom says, grabbing her again and pulling her close. His arm goes around her waist and she realizes she had started to sway. She forces herself to stay conscious.

"I'm here," she says.

He stares at her for a moment, and she sees behind that mask he is always trying to wear. He is always thinking, always planning, always ready, but there is something unsure there. As if when he looks at her, he knows of the same thing she does.

They had tried to kill her.

"The wine cellar," Tom says, moving them toward the back door of the kitchen. The doors are solid mahogany. A good wine cellar has to seal out all possible elements of contagion. No hint of damp, no possible fumes could penetrate the fortress where possibly some of the most expensive items in this house can be found.

Truthfully, she doesn't even think Tom likes wine.

But there is a door. Tom had shown it to her years ago, when she'd first moved in. She had been given very specific instructions that if anything happened in the house, anything at all, she was to make for the cellar, find the door, and not look back. There was some kind of transportation at the end -- either a car, a motorcycle, something with wheels to get her away. It was an escape hatch, to be quaint. She never needed it, nor knew Tom to have needed it, in all their time together.

Looks like they're going to find out if it works or not.

Suddenly Hadley is there, coming in from the other way. Was he in the cellar? Things have been moving too fast to say for sure. Tom's face nearly explodes with an emotion that looks strangely like relief when he sees him.

"Hadley!" Tom barks, motioning with his gun. "You wouldn't happen to be--"

Hadley's answer is to remove the gun from its holster, tucked inside his jacket. Since when does Hadley walk around armed? Even Tom gives a slight stutter with his step as he realizes, but he recovers quickly. Time is of the essence.

"We're going out the back," Tom declares as he gets the doors open. They are heavy, cumbersome things. Tom has to let go of Rose and use both hands to do it, but he gets far enough for them to push through. He grabs Rose and squishes her through the opening before following, gesturing with his chin for Hadley to follow.

Rose turns and looks down the dim, dark stairs. But the temperature in this room is carefully controlled, and there is no damp, no draft. It's cool and dry. The railings are smooth easy to grasp. She starts to make her way down, realizing how awful this journey would have been in those damn shoes. Not that it's much better with just her stockings against the cold floor.

"I want you to take Rose out the back," Tom tells Hadley. Rose can hear it, and she stumbles. Her feet are sliding against everything and it takes all her concentration to keep from falling on her face. Once she is at the bottom she whirls around.

"NO! Tom, you can't! You have to come with us!"

Tom doesn't miss a beat. He lurches forward and has Rose by both arms, pulling her tight. "Rose, don't argue with me." Authoritative, but gentle.

She shakes her head. "You can't..."

"I can. Either I'll kill enough of them in the bottleneck and interrogate a survivor, or they'll capture me and I'll find out what the hell this is all about." His blue eyes are widely dilated in the low light, but the blue still manages to blast her into silence. "It's the only way, Rose. We have no leads, only this bizarre attack in the middle of the damn day. Of course its connected -- I can't run away. I have to find our son."

Rose just shakes her head, mute. Tom's face suddenly softens, and before she knows it, his hands are cupping her cheeks, his fingers winding in her hair, and he has pulled her into him, his lips covering hers.

The kiss is searing. Rose feels it throughout her entire body. It reeks of desperation, and despair, and most of all, blazing, passionate love. Like he's pouring everything he has into these precious seconds because they will not come again.

When he dislodges with a slight _smack_ , she realizes there are tears streaming down her cheeks. "Hadley," Tom says, his voice rough and broken. Without a word, Hadley steps forward, grabs her arm, and she is dragged away.

Rose knows, the second Hadley shuts the door behind them, that she's made a terrible mistake. Her hands already shake, her steps are unsteady. The stress of losing Will was bad enough but as long as she could lean on Tom she had some shred of hope.

Not now.

Hadley is doing something to the door. In the dim light she can't tell what it is for sure, but she's pretty sure its to keep them from being followed. Then he starts walking. Not just walking, _striding_. He's not a tall man but he's well built and he is capable of going much faster than her, especially as she has no friction in these damn stockings. She wants to bend over and tear them off.

Thankfully, the stockings already have huge holes in the bottom and the very light slapping sound of bare skin against the ground increases as she struggles to keep up.

Hadley pulls out something -- at first she thinks its a flashlight but then she realizes it's his phone. The faint light above them is near useless, and he is using the glow of his phone to guide them, and it's the only way she can gage how far ahead he's getting. Because he's getting farther away, not closer.

"Hadley!" she gasps. She's hardly out of shape but all the excitement has worn her down. "Please, I can't keep up!"

For several minutes it's as if he hasn't heard her. Then, finally, he slows down.

The tunnel has to be significantly long, but she has no idea how long. For them to be able to emerge from under the estate far enough away to be safe? At least a half mile, she estimates. But she pushes one leg in front of the other without measuring distance.

There is more light toward the far end. Finally she catches sight of another pair of stairs -- these are much rougher, hewn from rock and the surrounding tunnel looks like something out of the Underground Railroad. Of course it won't be pretty at this end. This isn't part of the tour.

Hadley has stopped. But his back is still to her. The new light reveals a rough wooden door at the top of the stairs, but he's not ascending. He's just standing there...

And then, in a surreal moment, Hadley turns, pulls his gun from the holster under his shoulder, and levels it at her head.

Rose just stands there and stares. She can't comprehend what she's looking at. Why in the hell would Hadley aim his gun at her? Tom told him to protect her, to get her out safely. This doesn't fall under that description.

"Hadley?" Rose whispers. She looks past the baleful empty grayness of the weapon and into his eyes. There is something flinty in them. "What..."

"Come now, Miss," Hadley says, his voice a bit strangled. "You're much brighter than that. Be quicker."

"A betrayal," she says, her voice going flat. Hadley? Betray Tom? After all this time? Hadley has been with Tom longer than she's known him. Hadley was the only man to ever run Tom's house. There simply wasn't anyone before him. He was at the beginning.

A traitor? It just can't connect. "I...I can't believe it. This is...Hadley, you can't..."

What jolts her from her shock is the bark of bitter laughter that escapes Hadley's throat.

" _You're_ one to lecture about betrayal," he snaps, his Scottish accent thickening under the emotion he's clearly struggling to hold back. "After what you've done. Abandoning him..."

"I wanted to stay with Tom!" Rose cried.

"Silly girl. I see the strain of men trying to kill you has addled your memory." He may be conflicted about what he's doing but his aim is steady. "You took his child from him. You deserted him. You knew what he was when you chose to love him. So a bit of blood gets too close to you and you bolt?"

"You knew I was leaving," Rose says, her voice shaking. "You saw me that morning. You knew I was going. Why didn't you stop me?"

"If I had known about William, I might have," Hadley bites out. "Might have saved all of us this hassle. But don't pretend you've grown a conscience -- no one lives with a man like Mr. Hiddleston for nearly five years and has any illusions about what he is."

The gears are shifting. Rose feels her anger starting to build. She cared about Hadley -- loved him as a friend, even. If he had said any of this to her to straighten her out for her own good or even Tom's, she would take it, and more. But for him to use it to justify himself --

"I didn't give a shit about myself," Rose manages with a much steadier voice. "I wanted to protect Will. Give him a clean slate, not be raised as the son of a Crime Lord!"

"You lost your say in that matter when you decided to share his bed," Hadley growls.

He steps a bit closer to her, and instinctively Rose tries to back away. There's little use in it. She could run, get lost in the shadows, but she has no idea what Hadley did to the door and in this light she wouldn't be able to figure it out before he got to her.

"So is that why you're doing this?" Rose asks, realizing that this is the second time today she's stared down the barrel of a gun. Mark was right. She was the target, not Tom. This proves it. "Out of some back-handed loyalty to Tom, some kind of revenge? Why did you stop him last night when he was out of his mind and storming into my room? Why didn't you just let him loose on me? Why protect me?"

"Because we needed to know where Will was," Hadley says, in an _isn't-it-obvious_ tone of voice. "We needed to keep you alive until we knew."

"Because we needed to know where Will was," Hadley says, almost without thinking. "We needed to keep you alive until we knew."

Rose shakes her head wildly. "You have Will," she gasps. "Hadley, where is he? Is he safe? Hadley, please--"

She steps forward, but Hadley cocks the gun. That motion immobilizes her. The previous gun missed because Tom pulled her away -- there is no one to save her now. Her one defender is the one who wants her dead.

Tears roll down her cheeks and drip off her chin. She only notices it because some fall against her lips when she parts them to plead one last time. "Hadley," she whispers. "It's not too late. I know you care about Tom. There's no going back from this--"

"He won't know," Hadley says. "There are more men waiting on the other side of that door. We were ambushed, obviously they discovered the secret exit. I don't know how, Mr. Hiddleston, but they got Miss Rosaline." His voice, which should be a mockery of distress, is actually rather cold and dead. Like the words disgust him.

Quite frankly, he shouldn't be talking. He should have just killed her. Every second he doesn't...Rose starts to hope.

She raises her hand and wipes her cheek. If she dies, what will happen to Will? That thought leads to a despair so deep it transcends tears. The flickering thought that Will would at least have Tom provides mild comfort but not enough -- and that maybe, hopefully, Tom would honor her wishes. But he'd also want revenge for her death. Where will _that_ lead? Maybe Will would go live with her parents...but _she's his mother_. 

But she still lives. Every second she draws breath, she wonders if Hadley is going to actually do it.

"Well?" she wonders aloud.

Hadley lets out a grunt. His finger dances around the trigger. Rose braces herself, and wonders.

Then, Hadley presses a few buttons on the phone he still grasps. He holds it up so that he can look at both it and her with the same sweep of his eyes. He frowns at the screen, then presses something else. He holds the phone to his ear.

"Yes sir, it's me," he says into the phone. "I'm sorry, reception is...I said reception is spotty!"

Silence. "No, sir, but she is here with me." Pause. "Yes sir, I know. But..."

_But_. That precious _but_. Rose slowly starts to let herself believe...

"But...yes, alive. And if you wish to take Mr. Hiddleston alive, he has to see her as such. If he thinks...if he thinks!" (louder, the reception is obviously bad) "If he thinks she's dead we'll never get him to come along!"

A much longer pause. Hadley uncocks the gun, and motions with it. He removes the phone from his ear, the call already ended from the other side of the line.

"You get a little while longer," Hadley says.


	27. Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

Standing at the foot of the stairway, surrounded by his collection of drink, time is wasting. He needs to ascend the stairs and grab supplies from the kitchen while he can.

He needs to, but he isn’t. Not quite yet.

The practical move would have been to remain above rather than follow Rose and Hadley down into the wine cellar. He couldn’t let her leave without kissing her, possibly for the last time. Practicality be damned, he needed those last few minutes absorbing what he could from her proximity.

There’s no need for continued worry. Hadley knows what he is doing. Hadley is armed. Hadley will keep her safe.

Now Tom has to hold to his end of the bargain – provide the distraction – defend his home and allow them time to escape.

The thing within him is rejoicing. No more battle with the gentleman. _It’s time to play_.

For a while all he needs to do is stall - stall and let the mass of men do the majority of the work for him. If it comes to it they’ll end up fumbling through the small entrance to gain access to the cellar and he’ll be able to strike at them easily. Failing that he can backtrack down the stairwell and make a last stand with the tunnel door at his back.

Hopefully he won’t fail.

He needs to arm himself with more than the small handgun he’d claimed from Rose and his pocket knife. His knife. He quirks his head, considering the room above him. The knives from the kitchen will do nicely for his purposes – the cleaver, even better. Remaining above ground and having the full kitchen to use as his battleground is another possibility, a possibility the thing within him is all in favor of:

_Maximum mayhem,_ it comments with delight.

Tom hesitates at the top of the stairs to make sure the kitchen is still empty. No, maximum mayhem isn’t the way to go – the original plan is sound. He may have the advantage of familiarity with the layout but there are too many ways to get pinned down. That and too little time has passed since Rose and Hadley vanished into the tunnel.

He skirts the counters quietly while keeping a close eye on the progress of the men still trying to battle their way into the room. They’ve bent the slender pole that he wedged through the door handles to a point that there is no opening the doors to gain admittance.

Well done, them.

They’re too busy bickering amongst themselves to notice his presence in the kitchen, giving him time to pluck the needed supplies from the countertops and drawers nearby.

Tom pauses to observe their lack of progress with some amusement. Hard to find good help these days. Someone should be monitoring the kitchen through the few-inch-wide crack between the doors. The man with the best vantage point is trying to figure a way to ram bolt cutters through the small opening to remove the bent-to-hell-pole. Another poor soul is still heaving his body weight against the doors in a foolhardy attempt to gain entrance. That’s probably what bent the pole in the first place.

Frustrated mutters between heavy thumps against the doors make Tom smile just a little wider, “Forget. The pole. Just shoot. The fuckin’. Hinges.”

_Play. Play!_

The thing urges him forward to engage. They’re not keeping an eye out. They’re doing this to themselves, really.

By the time they break through the hinges on the door – the bakery pole still lodged in the handles – he’s pared down their numbers by three. First, the man that had been working the bolt cutters. That had been too easy. Tom just stood poised on the other side of the door and waited to strike. When the combined effort of the team forced the doors open by another few inches Bolt Cutters had tried to probe the problem by sticking his hand through the opening. The cleaver put an end to that.

He’ll need to relearn all functions using the opposite hand now.

The second – the man that had been throwing himself into the door – came close upon the heels of the first. While Bolt Cutters was screaming and trying stop the flow of blood pouring from his now mangled hand Tom simply stepped to the side, aimed with Rose’s gun, and dropped the second man before he could do much more than gape at all the blood.

He ran through nearly all the remaining ammo in the little handgun simply returning fire while his pursuers tried to regroup and finally gain admittance to the kitchen.

The third man removed from the opposing force was felled just as the doors were broken free of their anchors to the surrounding walls. The man jumped to take the place of the now fallen Battering Ram. His initiative would have been more successful if he hadn’t paused to step with care over the weakened and woozy Lefty (formerly known as Bolt Cutters).

Three out of the number doesn’t turn the odds in Tom’s favor. It seems there is no end to this that doesn’t see him surrendering. His pride and stamina are not so worn yet that he’ll allow that to happen – so they have him pinned in the entryway to the cellar. For now he’s holding the landing without having to retreat further. None of them care to go the way of Lefty, so they’re at a sort of dead lock there by the doors.

He just needs to hold the position until Hadley gets Rose to safety. Once safe, they’ll put a call out to Ben – then reinforcements will arrive – or Tom’s own men will appear from wherever they’ve been held up.

The reason he isn’t making the call to Ben at this very moment?

In his zealous drive to deplete their numbers he somehow crushed his phone. Perhaps when the doors had groaned, relented to the persistent weight pressed against them, and slammed to the floor. Maybe it was the blow to the side – why he hadn’t thought to snag one of the skillets to use as such will irk him for the duration that bruise remains on his ribs. At any rate, his phone is now a useless collection of plastic and metal weighing down his pocket.

The wine cellar door affords him no heavy handles, nor nearby pole, to hold off their advances. Weary, he cannot hold the door himself and stave them off. Tom wedges an empty wine crate between the stairway railing and the door and lies in wait for the next man to try to gain admittance. He has a shot left, maybe two, before the gun goes the way of his ruined phone, becoming essentially dead weight to carry. The various knives he’d collected earlier now lay scattered in the wreckage of the kitchen – either embedded in the cabinet doors or laying cast aside with trails of blood smeared along the lengths proving their effectiveness.

The door rattles with a blow causing the crate to jump along the floor. Tom takes a few steps down the stairs. That time there had been enough of a gap in the doorway that he’d caught a glimpse of the kitchen.

Still an utter mess.

Still full of more men than he could possibly take down on his own. And they seem to be multiplying.

So surrendering is the play. _Too soon_. The thing within him protests – for the want of more time for Rose to get to safety or for the want of more blood, more mayhem… He’d cleaved a man’s hand in two for God’s sake – will nothing slake the blood thirst?

The next time the door jumps open, Tom fires off a shot at the man’s legs. The door shuts before he sees if he hit his mark but the howling suggests the answer is a resounding: yes.

“You’ll do best to stop now, Mr. Hiddleston.”

The familiar brogue makes Tom’s celebration as to his marksmanship fall flat.

“Hadley?” 

Does this mean Hadley and Rose have gotten captured during their escape? No – no this was Hadley returning to the grounds to try to provide aid and getting himself captured. Surely.

Where is Rose?

The door slams into the crate and sends it splintering. The man that had plowed through the doorway stumbles forward with the sudden give. For his troubles he is met by Tom’s short nod and the final bullet in Rose’s Sig. The next man through will have to deal with the body now blocking the top of the stairs.

Tom doesn’t dare toss the gun aside. He knows he’s out of ammo, but they don’t. He keeps the gun leveled at the open doorway, waiting for the next man to burst through. The figure that gets shoved into view leaves him blinking in disbelief at what he’s seeing.

Rose.

His Rose.

No!

She’s looking over her shoulder at whomever just pushed her into view, presumably Hadley. Tom quickly takes in her appearance. The outfit that had left him speechless when she descended from her room now appears mussed. She’s been manhandled – someone will pay dearly for that. And at the moment? She looks more than a little murderous.

Her stockings are torn in more than a few places, the result of wandering the grounds sans shoes. He takes full credit for that. Her presence on the estate, the fact that she was in London and not hidden away in Nebraska – all his fault.

Tom hears a muttered something and Rose glowers a moment more before turning her head to lock eyes with him. The fact that she’s now looking down where he’s paused a few steps towards the once hidden, now _not-so-secret,_ tunnel with a mixture of fear and sorrow – that’s his fault too.

She shouldn’t be here. This isn’t her world.

Hadley’s warning echoes down through the wine cellar. “Stop _now_ , sir. Or it’ll be _her_ blood and brains smattering the walls and _you’ll_ be the one to clean it.”

\--

That was two, no – three – hours ago, by Tom’s best judgment. With his hands secured to the bottom rung on the chair, pulled back behind him at such an angle as to minimalize movement, he can’t reference his watch to keep track of the minutes.

It’s been awhile since he’s utilized the skill – using his own internal clock to keep track of the passage of time. It’s a skill he developed in his youth, well before he could afford the luxury of a simple time piece. All the money the family earned went towards putting food on the table for the many mouths that needed feeding. It’s honestly a little surprising to find he’s still proficient despite not utilizing the skillset for some time.

After using Rose to get him to stop picking off the men they had hidden her from him. It was an unspoken threat. **Do what we ask or she’ll suffer for it.**

But Hadley had escorted him to the security wing, to this windowless little box, sat him down, and left the room without a word. Not even a guard in the room from whom Tom could try to wheedle information.

Nothing.

Nothing to do but wait.

And sit.

He shifts in the chair, trying another position in the hopes that it might bring some small bit of comfort. The adrenaline of the moment is gone now and all the varying aches are making themselves known. Coziness was not the design of the chair though, nor the room, for that matter. It had one purpose and that doesn’t bode well for him.

“Hadley.” Tom mutters to himself. **Hadley** , of all people.

It is as close to friendship as he’d ever allowed himself. The life of a Lord of Crime afforded so few moments of true friendship. There was always _something_ behind every motive, every action, of any and everyone in the network. Every single person he came in contact with was suspect. With employees there was always the added boundary of the paycheck.

Hadley had been with him _from the beginning_. Tom hadn’t thought it necessary to have a head of household, not when he was first admitted to the Crime Lord ranks. Freshly appointed and to the bustling city? He was content to stay in the smaller dwellings closer to the Crime Lord estate itself. Ben had insisted on Tom cementing the title by purchasing the grounds and the manor within – and hiring the staff to help run and maintain the place.

The rest of the staff may have changed through the years but Hadley had remained.

Hard to imagine, looking forward from his youth when he had first dallied in the criminal underworld, that he would rise so far. From peddling on street corners to help his family make ends meet – He stops himself before the imagery becomes too focused after years of willing it to blur in his mind. Those thoughts lead down a path littered with bodies of loved ones.

That is a path he refuses to revisit.  

When Hadley finally reenters the room Tom is all too happy to glower at his former employee. At this point he’ll take anything to distract from the haunting memories trying to surface – even if it means breathing the same air as this sorry excuse of a man he’d once respected.

_Let me out of the cuffs, Hadley. Let your weary employer stretch his limbs after sitting for so long. Just release **one** of my wrists from the cuffs, Hadley. Just **one**. _

Hadley remains near the door, taking care to keep his distance. “Where is Rose?” Tom asks, the query barely escaping his compressed lips.

“Comfortable.”

Tom’s eyebrows tick upwards a fraction. Probably a lie, if his current situation is any indication. “That _wasn’t_ my question, Hadley.”

“That _was_ my answer.”

Further argument won’t scratch the itch he feels. He doesn’t bother hiding the menace coursing through him when the wholly unsated monster within repeats it’s growled demand: _Unlock the cuffs, Hadley. Unlock the cuffs and we’ll see if you can sustain that disdain with my hands around your neck._

There are many questions and snide comments swirling about in his brain but Tom refuses to beg for demands to be made or any further information. He chooses instead to bottle his rage and settle his thousand yard stare on the wall on the opposite side of the room.

After three hours, what is a few minutes more? Hadley _will_ be the one to have to break the silence.

Tom senses Hadley’s swift approach but can do nothing to block the blow that lands on his skillet-tenderized ribs. He releases his breath in a wheeze. If he could double over he would, but with his arms secured taut behind him that is impossible.

Now _this_ is an unexpected turn of events. No deals. No talking. Just – what is this – retribution for years of barked commands?

This time Hadley aims for the closest kidney. Before Tom can take more than a few shallow breaths the next blow falls.

And another.

And another.

As much good it does him, Tom focuses on blocking out the pain and the delighted howls of the well-fed monster within. Evidently blood is blood is blood is blood. The thing within him cares not that he is the one being pummeled.

Tom sits, absorbing the hits, waiting until Hadley deems fit to inform him of the demands. Continuing to while away the passing minutes becomes impossible. It turns into a game of internal jeers following the various blows to his body.

[left kidney] _Good. Now there will be a bruise to_

[gut] _match the right._

The one to his jaw makes his teeth rattle and leaves him blinking away spots. It loosens his tongue, though.

“Safe.” Tom growls out the word before licking his lips. He tastes blood – but he expects nothing less at this point. “Hadley. You were to keep her _safe_.”

Bloody, bruised, and all he can think of is Rose.

The way she smiled at him the first time they met.

[ribcage again]

The tender spot right where her ear met her jawline. The little harrumph noises she used to make when he would frustrate her.

[another shot to the head – but then he’s absorbed in vividly conjuring a mental image of his Rose]

Those lips.... those lips that mesmerized.

Rose’s safety must be ensured. Not that he is in any state to try to defend her. But – if he found himself free of his restraints he could source out the energy to beat her whereabouts from Hadley. Tom tests the handcuffs that keep his arms stretched behind his back. They’ve grown no weaker in the time that has passed.

_God damn bloody **perfect.**_


	28. Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rose]

The one advantage to being locked in a room alone for hours is that it affords one time to think. Rose has done nothing but for the last...maybe three hours? Her clock is rusty. Too much dependence on a cellular phone. So she sits on the floor of the small room they have locked her in, and thinks.

The room she is in is part of the security wing. It is windowless and bare-floored. There is no furniture in it, only a single bright dome light in the center of the ceiling -- in her urge to occupy herself, she has counted the dead bugs that have gathered at the dome's curved base. She has situated herself against the wall  next to the door, where it naturally opens into the room -- this way when the door opens, whoever comes through will be instantly visible to her, but not the other way around -- they'll have to scan, which will buy her precious seconds to deal with whatever is coming. Her legs are either straight out before her or pulled together lotus style. Every twenty minutes or so, or when she starts to feel cramped, she gets up and walks around the room, keeping herself limber. Occasionally, she suspects she has fallen asleep. The loss of adrenaline and the continuous anxiety have combined to leave her feeling rather spent, and while she does not feel the heavy pull of sleepiness, she is pretty sure she has nodded off a few times, for brief intervals.

She has already removed the stockings. They were so shredded they added more discomfort than not having them at all. She has stashed the shreds away in the waistband of her underwear just in case she can get the nylon around someone's neck.

Particularly, Hadley's.

But she won't. Not yet. Not until she sees Will. Not until they give him back to her. And while they're at it, she wants Tom, too.

Oh his face when he saw her at the top of the wine cellar's stairs. She can't get that memory out of her mind's eye. No more than the touch of his hand which still lingers on her ankle, the force of his kiss that makes her lips still burn.

Rationally, she knows this is not her fault. She did not cause these events. But this does not stop the wheels of her mind from turning until they find the exact point where she could have prevented every moment of this.

Precisely, the moment she'd fallen in love with Tom.

Hadley was right. She'd known, all along, what Tom was. How had she lied to herself for that duration? Probably told herself all manner of half-truths and justifications. In business you were bound to rub elbows with criminals, you had to psychologically prepare for it, to a certain extent. She and Tom had done a hell of a lot more than rub elbows.

No, she couldn't go through this with herself again. She'd done it for Will. She'd left for Will. Even though she'd plotted to leave some months before Will even began to exist. Will had just strengthened her resolve.

So this was her price. This was what she was to pay for her mistakes. Not her own life, she didn't care about that -- but with that of her son. And to prevent that she had to become the very thing from which she ran.

 _No,_ she told herself for the dozenth time, shutting her eyes. _You can't give up. They're holding you all for a reason. They want something. If not you'd already be dead._

That had certainly been the plan.

 _Hadley..._ he'd been planning to kill her. They'd all been planning to kill her. They wanted Tom alive, and her dead. Somehow...somehow Hadley had stopped it. Convinced them otherwise.

Why?

Her legs start to cramp. She pulls herself upright and does a few laps around the room. Then she returns, loosened, and sits in lotus position again. She rests her face in her hands, exhaustion starting to wear through her.

Hadley had told them she was the only way to take Tom alive. And the look on Tom's face... how the fight had just seemed to seep from him, leaving only a glowering, black, empty hole.

Tom...she presses her palms against her eyes. The first moment she saw him in that car park, she'd been afraid, and not really that he would harm her -- rather that the feelings she had repressed for him for so long would start to crawl out from the cage she'd banished them to, years ago. She knew their power, their ability to control her. For so long, they had blinded her to reality; but now that reality was clear, they seemed stronger than ever. growing more dominant since that moment she'd thrown her arms around him in his study and quoted those fateful lines from Othello.

_When I love thee not, chaos is come again_.

Her heart throbs with the knowledge that this is it. Whatever happens after this, _she cannot be with him, no matter how badly she wants to, no matter how much he still seems to love her, no matter that her soul feels like its going to die without him_. Not in this world of violence and stolen children. But this hurts, so much more than it ever did before. She feels the very beginning of tears burn hot at the backs of her eyes, the first tears in many hours, as she has been too angry to cry. The dark shadows that have pursued Tom for so long will win, and there will be nothing left of that man, the one she wants to spend the rest of her life with. _Then she will run or she will die._

And that is when the door snaps open.

The man who enters the room is recognizable from what Rose could see of him from the screen of Tom's laptop, in his study. He is of a rather stocky build, almost as tall as Tom. He is dressed in a sharp, dark suit with a white shirt underneath and a matching tie. His brown hair has been gelled into place but its easy to see how unruly it would be if allowed free. He's ruggedly handsome, that much she already observed, and the joking manner in which he'd taunted Tom previously belies the predatory gaze that lands on her.

August Tempest is not a man to be taken lightly.

"Miss Rose," he says, stepping into the room and settling his hands into his pockets, a casual gesture.

"Rosaline," Rose corrects him coolly. "Please." No one would ever call her that name again, after Tom.

Tempest nods. "Very well. You know who I am, I'm assuming."

Rose attempts to get to her feet as gracefully as she can. The dress is in ruins, but it holds to her form and doesn't betray her modesty. In spite of the best efforts of those thugs who had taken her from Hadley when they'd emerged from that tunnel, she is pretty much intact.

"I do know," Rose says, taking on her most professional voice. It's been a long time since she's used it and hopes she isn't rusty. "What I don't know, Mr. Tempest, is what it is that you want."

Tempest shrugs one shoulder, briefly. "What does any man with power want? More power." He steps closer to her, eyeing her up and down. "I have to say, I am impressed with yours."

She arches an eyebrow. Too many years of living with Tom has caused her to pick up his most common facial expressions. "Excuse me?"

"You, my lovely Shakespearean goddess, were supposed to be shot on sight. Those men were given very explicit orders on the subject of you. And yet you're not dead."

Rose is not terribly surprised, but the news is still a punch to the gut. She does her best to keep it behind the cool, professional mask, but isn't sure how much she succeeds.

"Somehow, your _loyal_ butler -- isn't that was he is? Or was, or whatever -- he found a way to let you live. Can't figure out if that's a sign of how smart he is or how much we shouldn't trust him. Because I'm sure we would never have taken your ex-boyfriend alive if he hadn't known your life depended on him surrendering. And I'm sure your ability to draw breath will affect the outcome of this particular situation."

"You talk quite a bit, Mr. Tempest--"

"Please, call me Gus."

"But you don't say much," Rose says, folding her arms. "Once again, I ask you, what is it you expect Mr. Hiddleston to do for you?'

Tempest shrugs again. "Oh, I don't know...sign over all his holdings to me? I've always wanted," and here he breaks into a shark-like grin, "to be known internationally. Crime Lord of Chicago is a decent title, but people there lack finesse. Too many connections to the old mob, I guess. And America, I don't know if you've noticed, is splintered into its little groups and nobody wants to just get along. New York, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, even fucking Texas, there's no sense of unity. Here, you are all in nice little compartments that fit together so neatly. We could learn a few things from you."

Rose resists a smart remark. Instead, she says, "I believe you have my son. William."

"Oh, yes, little Tommy Junior," Tempest says with glee. He has begun pacing the room, almost circling her. Apparently Tempest has done extensive research on them. "Feisty kid, I'll give him that. Must be the bloodlines."

"Is he here?" Rose follows his track, turning in time with him, but her expression instantly softens to one of supplication. Tempest has said it himself -- men in power want more power. He's more likely to give in to her if he thinks he's got what he wants.

"Not yet. He'll be along," Tempest says lightly, that smirk still playing at his lips. Rose bites back a sudden lump in her throat at this cruelty.

"You obviously have no children of your own," she says, unable to help herself.

"What makes you say that?" Tempest asks, stumbling only slightly.

"Because then you would know what it means to separate a child from those who love him," she grinds out through her teeth.

Tempest’s smirk widens into a toothless smile. "I do know what it means, Miss Rosaline. And I know it will make you do whatever I ask. So if you want your little boy back, you are going to help me get what I want. After that, you can run into some dark corner in the middle of Iceland for all I care. But I will get what I came here for. Period."

Rose clenches her fists, feeling the dig of her fingernails into her palm. What she manages to say through the muscles throughout her throat and chest constricting is, "Is he safe?"

"Your little Will is quite safe," Tempest assures her, his voice softening just a bit. "Or maybe you were referring to the boy's father? Of course, from what I understand, you and he have had quite the falling out. I suppose your heart has probably softened from all the effort he's made to keep you alive..."

Rose just stares at him.

"And the fact that he only surrendered when Hadley threatened to kill you," Tempest finishes his thought, rubbing his chin with finger and thumb. "I'm wondering what else he'll be willing to do. Shall we go find out?"

He turns briefly toward the door and knocks his knuckles back against it. The door opens, and Hadley is on the other side. Rose sees him in her peripheral vision -- she will not take her gaze from Tempest's, and she certainly will not acknowledge Hadley by meeting his eyes. She feels everything in her coil with rage.

Tempest motions for her to walk, sweeping his arm toward the entrance. Rose squares her shoulders and marches through, as primly as she can without any shoes. Her chin even tilts up, and she can feel Hadley's eyes boring into her, but she will not look at him. Not even a passing glance.

"This way," she hears Hadley say, and he walks past her to lead her down the hallway. Rose never spent much time in the security wing, so things are rather unfamiliar. She turns her gaze to see what the invaders have done, peeking through the doorways to other rooms, her head very much away from Hadley who walks a bit beside and in front of her. He keeps turning his head to look at her over his shoulder, but she resolutely keeps her eyes from him.

"Here," Tempest says, coming up on her other side. He looks at her and then toward Hadley, and chuckles, that toothy grin coming out again. "Oh, you people and your love of drama."

"In you go, Miss," Hadley says, motioning toward the door. Rose bristles when his hand reaches for her arm, and she flinches away, still not looking at him. She can feel his gaze like a material thing, its weight pressing into her skin.

"I wonder, Mr. Tempest," Rose says, every word feeling like broken glass, "about your fondness for snakes. They have a tendency to turn on their masters -- they seem to not care who they bite," and finally she looks at Hadley and musters all that fractured emotion, that pain, wrath, and perfidy that has been lining her heart and her gut for the last several hours. "Someone who's proved themselves a snake will not hesitate to do it again."

Tempest sighs, and opens the door. Rose's gaze is torn from glaring black death at Hadley to the figure of a man seated in the center of the room -- Tom -- with his hands behind him.

She is pushed inside, a hand shoving her between her shoulders, and the door is slammed shut behind her. It takes only a few seconds to recover and run to him.

"Tom!"

He's been beaten. Badly. A few nasty blows to the face but she can tell by the set of his jaw that he's taken more than a few to vital organs and bones. One cheek has a horrible red knot that is almost visibly throbbing. His hands are behind him, and she immediately cranes her neck to see if there's something she can do.

"Cuffs," Tom says, his breath slightly labored. Obviously he's taken more than a few to the ribs. "Don't bother."

Rose groans as she kneels before him, her hands clenching his thighs as she steadies herself. Tom's eyes are strongly focused, as if he's grasping at her with his eyes in order to maintain his hold on the situation.

"Are you hurt?" he asks. Rose resists the urge to be ridiculously touched by his concern when it is obvious he is in a lot of pain and she has suffered little more than being shoved around. She shakes her head, both to clear it and to answer him.

"They have Will," she manages. Her throat is tight, making words difficult. Her eyes are dry, but suddenly breathing is difficult for her as well. It must be the stress.

He gives a little nod. "I will get you out of this," he says. "You and Will."

"And you?" she replies, her face contorting with the anguish of that statement. Always separating them. She runs her fingers along the cheek that is still uninjured, and Tom's eyes flutter shut at her touch.

"I don't think that's an option," he says, strained. He won't look at her.

Rose's nose has started to burn. Tears are threatening but she bites them back. She has cried too much this last day. Enough tears. She has to be strong.

"I wish," she hears herself saying, almost against her will.

At her words, Tom's eyes flash open, searching her face as she speaks.

"I wish we could all be safe," she says. "The three of us. Safe and away from this life. I wish we could be the family we were supposed to be."

Tom seems to absorb her words, then gives his wrists a hard shake. He is using the rattle of the handcuffs against the metal chair to support his words. "Rose, I'm cuffed and covered in blood in the bowels of my own house. Safety has never been much of an option with me."

Impulsively, Rose loops both arms tightly around his neck and pulls herself closer to him, pressing her cheek against his temple. She whispers something into his ear, and feels him lean down a bit against her arm, feels the exhale of his breath against her skin. At that moment, the door opens again.


	29. Demands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

The harder he focuses on Rose to block out his current situation the less it helps. Secured to the chair in the security room via manacles there is no way to physically prevent Hadley from continuing to beat upon him. At the start Tom was able to conjure up Rose’s form in vivid detail – slowly he is losing ground. Worse still, the thing within is turning his focus against him.

In a desperate attempt he concentrates on more recent memories. Something strong: the realization he is a father.

Thomas William Hiddleston the second.

William.

Little Will.

Just how tiny the hand and footprints had been in the hospital records that Ethan had sent him from the States – what Will might have looked like when cradled in Rose’s arms in the hospital just after delivery – how he might appear now… Rose had described William as all curls and dimples.

But shuffled in with those memories comes the altercation in Rose’s room, wherein he’d advanced upon her in a rage – shouted blindly about betrayals and secrets kept. And then – the shock that had sent him reeling to his safe place, to his study, actually laid hands upon the one good thing in his life – his Rose.

His darker side laughs at him, at the guilt he feels, and taunts him over his lack of control – both over his reaction that day and his inability to keep from feeling the effects of Hadley’s assault.

Now stronger from a night spent free and fully aware of the fact that it _might not get to play again_ , his darker side continues to murmur dark thoughts.

_‘ittle Tom – forever harming those he loves._

He had shouted, and Rose had backed away from him until there was nowhere else to go. But then his unchecked rage was and is something to be feared.

Not only by others.

Tom grits his teeth. He is powerless to combat either the internal words or the pummeling his body is enduring at Hadley’s hand. He hasn’t felt this helpless since he was a boy. It certainly doesn’t help that the thing has settled upon addressing him by the title that conjures his childhood from the depths.

_‘ittle Tom deserves what he gets._

Hadley is none the wiser to the assault Tom is facing internally. Tom spoke of his past to no one. Not even Hadley was privy to those details. Tom’s background had been turned into a work of fiction wrought to inspire fear and obedience. Rose never did understand why Tom was so unflinchingly loyal to Ben. Maybe if he’d shared those details with her she would have understood.

_‘ittle Tom doesn’t trust anybody though. **Can’t** trust anybody. Too selfish to trust. Too selfish to **love.**_

Ben Kingsley had saved Tom from a decidedly short existence. He owed Ben his life.

It is after Hadley lands a particularly strong blow to Tom’s lower ribs that sends a shooting pain through Tom’s system that the murmurs become stronger, louder, and the childish moniker is dropped.

_Oooh cracked rib. Delightful. Recompense for cheap shots during sparring, perhaps?_

What is a cracked rib amongst all the other discomforts his body is registering right now? And damn it – he did love Rose! **Does** love Rose! At this point he is beyond considering the wisdom of arguing with himself.

_Never toooold her._

He had, in his way.

The thing repeats itself: **_Never told her!_**

The thing’s low chuckle reverberates within Tom’s head as Hadley circles to find somewhere new to land a blow. Hadley has been passing back and forth behind Tom’s chair rather than before him, enjoying the few taunting moments when he passes beyond Tom’s field of vision. More than once he landed a punch, a strike that Tom couldn’t brace for, just for good measure.

Again Tom turns his thoughts to Rose and Will but it only strengthens the thing rather than providing Tom any comfort.

_Yes, Tom, cling to family. That always helps. Pull them from the safety boat into the water. Drag them under as your blood soaked past catches up with you._

He can’t argue, not that he doesn’t want to, but – the thing isn’t wrong. Everything catches up to you in the end. This is the inevitable end to a Lord of Crime. You either die a ruthless old wolf or at the hands of those mistakenly called friends.

The thing within him is laughing again.

Still neither Tom nor Hadley speak. After Hadley’s early blow to the right side of Tom’s face, Tom has tried to remember to breathe through his mouth. The persistent throbbing of his cheekbone helps immensely in that regard. As a test he attempts a slight inhalation, only to feel his sinuses protest the action.

Sometimes it can be said that certain pains are preferable and can be used to help distract from other affected areas. In the consideration between the protestations of his face just now with that small breath versus the jabbing pain in his torso it’s a tossup. Added bonus, and much to the entertainment of the thing within, he feels as though he’s drowning in the drainage of blood, spittle and mucus that is starting to collect. If it didn’t hurt so much to move he might try to twist and spit the concoction from his mouth – perhaps aiming at Hadley if the timing fit…

He’ll be pissing blood for the next few days, assuming he survives the night. He’ll limp through the hallways of his home – this giant empty place – and take stock of the damage caused today before setting about with repairs. There are more than a few bullets in the paneling. Quite the interesting version of breadcrumbs to mark the path he and Rose used to flee from their pursuers.

What will it take for Hadley to move beyond the extended beating and on to something productive? It will take breaking the stubborn silence. As much as Tom doesn’t want to be the first to cave, talking to Hadley is preferable to further entertaining the painful truths gleefully pointed out within his head.

It doesn’t much matter how exactly Tom sits in the chair now, every position sends some sort of pain signal to his brain. Shifting to the left steals all his breath from him, to the right leaves him panting. Leaning forward forces some of the shooting twinges up into his shoulders. At least hunched over in that way he can manage shallow breaths, if only for a short while.

Tom sits back again, gingerly. Leaving him alone in the room once more was a mistake. It gives him time to think, to plan, to focus – well, if he could focus on something other than blocking out the sharp jabs of pain. He is doing his best not to appear as truly worn through as he actually feels. He refuses to give Hadley that satisfaction.

Hadley’s involvement is worrisome, yes. All the more worrisome – Tom doesn’t know who else is involved. There is no way that his head of household acted alone in this – but that Hadley was swayed into _helping…._  This beating of retribution can’t be the only thing he was promised.

Hadley’s involvement also goes a long way to explain why no help had arrived in the form of Tom’s security team. When the head of household sends you on to the Crime Lord compound in preparation for tonight’s meeting, if you want to keep your job, you listen. From there it would have taken a simple few keystrokes to disabled the security system that would normally have sounded an alarm.

No, no help would be arriving.

If there was just some way to send notice to the compound – Hadley would have disabled the system that would have signaled a breach to Tom’s estate but would he have thought to disarm the fire alarms? It’s a thought… anything to draw the attention of those at the estate.

It also assumes he can somehow release himself from these cuffs that keep him secured to the chair. The cuffs – the cuffs that have drawn blood as a result of his continued stressing of their links. It’s a fool’s hope that these are an older pair that might be weakened through sustained pressure. His torso refuses to allow him the mobility to turn to see if he’s made any progress on that front. He also doesn’t want to give the game away, in his condition he needs every scrap of surprise he can manage.

So the plan – the plan is to release himself from this chair. Release himself from the chair and find Rose. Find Rose, find Will – and get them both to safety. And then…. Then rain hell down upon those that decided to come after his family.

But the goddamned cuffs are of sturdy make. He’ll have to go about this differently. Perhaps he can talk his way into having his wrists freed – if Hadley will allow a word or two before resuming the beating. He looks at his knees while trying to figure out the appropriate phrasing, that which might strike a chord with his ex-head of household.

His inner voice isn’t making any of this any easier – still with the murmured comments.

He doesn’t react when the door to the room swings open again. If it is Hadley returning to finish out his temper tantrum he will be presented with a worn but stoic London Lord of Crime. The door slams shut again and there is a rushed intake of breath before the swish of fabric alerts him to someone approaching quickly.

It is not Hadley, back for a repeat performance, but Rose – _his_ Rose.

What are they playing at?

He grits his teeth. There’s nothing he can do about the physical signs left by Hadley’s fists, but he’s determined to downplay his condition despite every small movement sending shooting pains through his torso. If they’ve shoved Rose in here with him they _are_ watching via the security feed – Hadley and whomever pitted him against Tom.

“Tom!”

He is relieved at the sight of her, but also _not._ She should be away. Safe.

_Safe._

She appears just as concerned about his appearance as he is of hers. Comfortable. That’s the answer Hadley had provided as to Rose’s whereabouts but Rose’s legs are bare, stockings removed –

_Stockings removed._

He doesn’t much like the way the repeated observation in his head was sneered. Specks of dirt and a slight redness on the sides of her calves suggest she’s been seated on or against something unforgiving. Comfortable? He darts his eyes to the door, then back to Rose who is close to him now, peering over his shoulder while examining the way he is seated in the chair. At least she isn’t leaning on him to do so – he’s shifting around in the chair too much already.

“Cuffs,” he says in explanation. She appears as though she might reach out and lean upon his shoulder so he quickly adds, “Don’t bother.” He clenches his abdomen in his rush to expel the words to warn her off and instantly regrets it. He may have sparred daily with Hadley during the time in which Rose was absent but his body hasn’t undergone such a thorough hammering in years.

Ignore it. Move past it.

_Enjoy it. You haven’t passed out yet. You deserve a few hours **more**. _

The monster taunts him still. He isn’t arguing against it anymore and still it continues...

Ignore the pain and ignore its words. Focus on Rose. His Rose. The illusions he’d attempted to conjure earlier truthfully hadn’t done her justice. Even in her state, with the events of these past few hours clearly taking their toll, she’s the most breathtaking creature he’s ever –

_– been able to seduce and corrupt._

Rose kneels down to the side of his chair, keeping close to him. She seems unable to decide where to look. He zeroes in on the small noise she makes as she kneels down – of pain? If only he had use of his hands to examine her, ensure she is unharmed. “Are you hurt?”

She responds in the negative, a simple shake of her head, but he isn’t sure if he believes her. Hadley might have told her to lie about that if he asked. The men that had taken the house and chased them through the hallways to the kitchen had been _aiming_ at Rose. And she had been in their care for hours – assuming Hadley simply exited the tunnel and turned right back towards the estate.

Her next words come after a delayed beat, sounding strained within her throat. “They have Will.”

They.

_They._

Finally something from that growled inner voice that isn’t turned against him.

They may currently have William, but they won’t have him much longer. When they come to Tom with their demands he’ll give them a few of his own. Rose and Will are to be released. They never should have been involved in this – whatever this is… Yes. He’ll make his demands and won’t agree to anything asked of him until they are met.

“I will get you out of this, you and Will.” To safety. And then –

She lifts one of her hands from where she’s been steadying herself by holding onto his leg, mercifully one spot that doesn’t ache at the moment, and touches the uninjured side of his face. “And you?” The look she’s giving him supports every darkly muttered word within his head that he’s been subjected to in the past few hours. Here – here is the evidence of all the heartbreak, all the pain he’s caused in her life. He closes his eyes against the image but it remains, even behind closed eyelids, much to the thing’s smug satisfaction.

_Will take whatever they dish out. All that pain within her. You deserve a few more rounds with Hadley, yes?_

How can she ask as to his fate? She knows. If there were any doubts before, this little adventure proves it – his world should remain firmly separate from hers. He used to want something more for himself but that had been foolish. Trying to pull her back to him had been foolish and only proved to further the danger she was in. He should have left her stateside. He should have ensured her safety from a distance – perhaps hiring a security team to protect her... 

He words his reply as kindly as he can. “I don’t think that’s an option.”

They’re speaking softly to one another. Whether Rose realizes that he is doing so for fear of being overheard he isn’t sure. Right now, leaning his cheek into her hand, he doesn’t dare risk looking at her to learn what she’s thinking. Listening to her breathing over his own struggled attempts is torture enough.

She inhales, “I wish…” Against his better judgment he blinks his eyes open to watch the thought pour from her. “I wish we could all be safe.”

_Safe._

The mimicked word is followed by snickered laughter that he can’t quiet.

“The three of us. Safe and away from this life.” She continues on, “I wish we could be the family we were supposed to be.”

_A fairytale not reserved for you, Crime Lord._

He shares Rose’s sentiment – but again, his inner voice speaks the truth. He can’t leave. This life is in his blood, the blood that is smeared over his skin and smattering the floor. There would be no way to keep Rose and William clean of this lifestyle – assuming the three of them survive the night. No – he’ll do whatever he can to ensure Rose and William survive… his fate… well he signed over his life the day he signed his contract.

Tom sighs and gives his wrists a light shake to draw her attention back to their current predicament. “Rose, I’m cuffed and covered in blood in the bowels of my own house. Safety has never really been an option with me.”

He has a second to brace as she sweeps herself up and wraps her arms around his neck and shoulders. She presses her cheek to the side of his head, keeping her lips close to his ear. She has been keeping their observers in mind throughout all this. Rose inhales and then whispers to him, “I love you. Whatever you’re planning on doing, please don’t do something foolish. Will and I need you.”

Tom tilts his head forward to rest it against her shoulder. She needs this other man, the man that is being beaten down both externally and internally today. Her words give him hope, something with which to rally – perhaps even push the thing back into its dark corner. Before any quips within rise to sully the words he needs to tell her. He owes her that at least, to plainly admit to her how he feels rather than hiding the emotion behind layers of words for her to dig through.

He exhales her name as the security door bangs open once more. The rest of his words are lost. Tom lifts his head to watch Hadley stride through the doorway. He tries to shift despite his wounds, trying pull his arms free of the manacles so he can move stand between Hadley and Rose – and then stills upon seeing August Tempest follow closely on Hadley’s heels.

August is grinning broadly. “Tommy you should see your face. Ah. The half that isn’t…” he makes a gesture with his hand to indicate Tom’s swollen features. He returns to grinning before checking his watch, and then clears his throat, “Sorry to interrupt the tender moment. Touching, really…

Rose moves to her feet again, stepping to act as a barrier between Tom’s seated form and Hadley as the latter approaches. “Et tu, Brute?” Tom can’t see her face right now, but her words are venomous. She’s probably giving Hadley a death glare.

Having been the recipient of such a look before, he marvels at how calmly Hadley replies. “Step aside, miss. I don’t want to hurt you.” Rose doesn’t move of her own free will. She stands, fixed to the spot between Tom and Hadley until Hadley takes her by the upper arms and half shoves her in the direction of August. She stumbles to stand beside Tempest, righting herself quickly.

“… we need to stay on schedule here.” August says. He’s had enough of the inter-household bickering.

Fuming, Tom can’t decide which man he wants to be the focus of his rage. He glances between August and Hadley in turn. “That’s right. There’s a meeting to attend.”

“And you’ll miss it. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something clever.” August responds.

“Un-cuff me and you won’t ha…” Tom can’t get through the quip before Hadley’s fist cuts off his words with a blow to the jaw. It’s a gentle tap in comparison to everything else Hadley has thrown at him in the past few hours.

August heaves a sigh. “How about we don’t draw this out any longer than necessary.” He starts to pat at his pockets before perking up at the discovery of the thing he is looking for and pulling a pen and folio of paper from within his jacket.

Paperwork? His demands. Finally. And once he trusts his jaw to return to normal working order he’ll make his own before agreeing to anything Tempest might list. It most likely won’t be something as simple as money…

“Do everybody in this room a favor. Sign over the London title.”

Tom blinks at the request and before he can stop himself, laughs. “To who – you?”

The chair rocks with the blow that Hadley lands to Tom’s side. No question now – one of his lower ribs is most definitely not where it is supposed to be and protesting its new position in Tom’s torso. Tom’s vision is alternating between bright spots of color, the floor of the room, and momentary blindness. He hears August’s reply well enough. “Tommy, don’t make this difficult. Sign the papers.”

What is he if not the London Lord of Crime?

_Just another man._

Tom focuses on his knees since he can’t for the moment upright himself to glare defiantly at August. “No.”

If he signs over his power will be the end, not just for him – but for Rose and Will as well. Without the leverage of the power of the mantel to protect the three of them, they are just loose ends – two people who know too much about the criminal network and one innocent life that will end no matter Will’s fate. They’ll kill William to wash their hands of the entire family or someone will take him under their wing and fashion him into a Crime Lord.

No. He can’t let that happen.

“What’s the point in having Rosaline in here if he can’t see her expressions as we work? Hadley… please…”

August is enjoying having Hadley do his dirty work. Maybe – maybe Tom can use that in his favor. Tom sucks in a breath as Hadley roughly shoves him upright in the chair. Tempest has settled to stand next to Rose as they watch the proceedings. Tom speaks through gritted teeth, his sentences littered with odd starts and stops. “What does it say, August. That I half expected. Mark to be the one working – with Hadley on this?” 

“Poor judge of character?”

Tom tries for a sneer. He knows his next response will net him another harsh blow but he doesn’t much care at this point. “But Mark wouldn’t be forcing the help – to do his dirty work.” Another nod from August and Hadley approaches and swings for Tom’s kidneys again. Tom laughs through the choking pain. What’s a few more deserved hits? “Just proves the point.” The darkness within is cheering him on now, providing the extra boost of strength needed. “Release Rose and William. Assure their safety – from you and any others.”

Tempest narrows his eyes at Tom and then resumes his jovial nature. “Always working an angle, aren’t you Tommy. No. Rose stays.”

“Then we’re at an impasse. Until my demands are met, until my family is safe and forevermore separate from the Crime Lord network, I refuse to sign anything you put in front of me.” 


	30. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rose]

When Rose stands, sees Hadley approaching, something in her locks down. The enmity scorches her insides, pouring from her lips like bile. She desperately wishes that she could exude the infuriation from her eyes and incinerate him. But instead all she can do it wear her hate like a mask and speak the only words that will come from her lips.

"Et tu, Brute?"

Hadley simply returns her venom with his usual unflappability. "Stand aside, miss. I don't want to hurt you."

Rose is momentarily frozen by his utter gall. Hadley, however, responds by reaching out, grasping her by her upper arms, and moving her swiftly from his path, nearly tossing her behind him, toward Tempest.

While she would never have begged Hadley, Tempest is another matter. "Please," she whispers. But it is all she can manage.

Tempest gives her a swift shake of his head. "We need to stay on schedule here." He wiggles is fingers at her dismissively, and Rose turns to stand beside him, struggling to figure out what to do next.

She half-hears their exchange. Tom is trying to negotiate, even from a chair, even as he's still being beaten. She can't bear to watch. She turns away, hands buried in her destroyed hair, struggling to think.

“What’s the point in having Rosaline in here if he can’t see her expressions as we work? Hadley… please…”

Tempest reaches out and grabs Rose's arm, pulling her closer. Hadley, for his part, adjusts so that Rose has a clear view of Tom getting pummeled.

Tom, always in control, still refuses to let any cracks in his foundation show. He mocks them. “What does it say, August. That I half expected. Mark to be the one working – with Hadley on this?” Obviously he's having trouble getting breath -- cracked ribs? She prays they don't puncture his lungs.

“Poor judge of character?” Tempest replies. Before, when they'd been trying to out-shark each other, it had been amusing. Now Rose just feels like she wants to vomit on Tempest's expensive Italian leather shoes.

Tom sneers at them, managing with, “But Mark wouldn’t be forcing the help – to do his dirty work.” Is he provoking them now? Rose's eyes widen when Tom laughs through another blow to his kidneys. “Just proves the point.”

_Tom...Tom you poor stupid fool_...but what Tempest wants, Tom can't give it. Did this man really think by smacking Tom around and then threatening her and their son that he would get the infamous Tom Hiddleston to break? That passing over the position was as easy as signing a piece of paper?

Rose realizes now that this was how she was able to do it, all these years -- how she was able to deny what these men were, all this time. She has never witnessed the true ugliness. She knew it was there -- she knew it lurked under the surface. But Tom had been a man in a suit behind a desk in an office. He had controlled things through long strings that wound through the city. At a certain level, all the violence just becomes business, just figures on a paper tallying the highs and lows.

Now, from the look on Tom's face, it is clear that this is no different than any other negotiation.

“Release Rose and William. Assure their safety – from you and any others.”

Tempest narrows his eyes at Tom and then resumes his jovial nature. “Always working an angle, aren’t you Tommy. No. Rose stays.”

“Then we’re at an impasse. Until my demands are met, until my family is safe and forevermore separate from the Crime Lord network, I refuse to sign anything you put in front of me.” 

The way Tom's eyes gleam as he speaks -- Rose swallows over the knot in her throat, and looks to see Tempest's reaction. His face has lost its perpetual amusement, but then, slowly, Tempest's lips flatten, and then stretch into a grin that terrifies her.

Abruptly, Tempest turns to her. And with no warning, his hand flies out. The blow lands on the side of her face, hitting right under the cheekbone, up into her temple. It's a staggering blow, and in her bare feet she has no way of bracing for it, let alone time. She stumbles, her feet sliding for purchase on the hard floor, and she struggles not to fall over. The pain, the ringing in her head, and the roaring in her ears take so long to subside --

\-- and she realizes the roaring is not in her head, but is Tom's voice, although what the hell he's saying her brain can't decipher.

"See, now we're finally getting somewhere!" Tempest cries with almost joyful enthusiasm, and when Rose's vision clears, she sees that he's actually looking at Hadley, who is not looking back at him, but at her, with his face wide open in alarm.

"This," Tempest says, grabbing Rose by her arm again and dragging her to stand in front of him, "is the true way to a man's heart. I mean, I've heard cruder ways to put it, but the bottom line is, when a man is in love, it's the worst damn thing that can happen to him. Because he has no control over it." His eyes slide down to her, meeting hers. "Men are used to being in control. Most of them depend on it. They want to be reasonable, rational, want things to be straight up. But love, hell, a man doesn't know what the fuck to do with love. It throws him off, all these emotional messages going to his brain that he doesn't have a clue what to do about them. So what can he do? He's helpless. Especially when that one special woman is in danger. You threaten her, you can get him to do whatever you want."

Rose blinks rapidly, her head clearing. She can hear Tom behind her, his voice so angry. "This is between you and me, August. Leave her out of it!"

"You don't care what we do to you, do you, Tommy? We could break every bone you have and you wouldn't crack. But her." Tempest looks down at Rose and his eyes practically glitter. "She's untouchable, isn't she?" He leans a little closer to Rose. "Why don't we find out, gorgeous, how much your baby daddy loves you?"

Endorphins have kicked in. Her skin burns but her head is starting to feel light. She grits her teeth and lifts one lip into a sneer. There is blood in her mouth, Rose realizes, from where her teeth cut into her cheek with his blow. Taking a heaving breath, she spits with all her might, right into Tempest's face. The shock in the American gangster's expression is worth it.

"Rose!" comes Tom's sharp tone. "Don't! ~~”~~

Rose ignores him. "You are wasting your time, _Gus_."

"Am I?" Tempest has wiped the spit from his cheek, and with the same hand gets as tight of a grip on her hair he can manage. He cocks and eyebrow, and as if by magic, he produces a cruel looking knife. The blade is thick, wide, and slightly curved, like a street knife. "Let's find out."

"Tempest!" Tom barks, but Tempest is not listening. He tightens his hold on the hair at the nape of Rose's neck, forcing her head to tilt up. She is convinced for a moment he's going to slit her throat, but then reason kicks in as the knife lowers -- he wouldn't be so foolish as to waste everything for one good spike of blood, which is all he'll get if he goes for her jugular.

The tip of the knife lands above her clavicle, and bites down. Rose clenches her teeth together and refuses to make a sound. Even the muscles in her neck that contort in pain are muted. It feels like burning -- and it rises, a physical shriek throughout her nerves. But she swallows her voice and nothing comes out.

Tempest looks at her face and if anything, his smile widens. Another sweep, just below the first, this one deeper. It _hurts_.... but then again, so did labor, and much worse than this. So she stifles the scream.

"Come on now, gorgeous," Tempest says, his voice near teasing it's so soft. "This is only going to get worse if you don't scream."

And then Rose has had enough. Her eyes fly open, sparkling with rage. She reaches up and grasps the blade of the knife, her hand going around the upper part of the hilt and the lower end of the blade. This, of course, causes the blade to immediately bite into the soft, fleshy part of her hand between her thumb and index finger. The pain is exquisite, but also of her own making and she can deal with that.

"Fuck you," she growls.

Tempest looks like he's going to explode for a single second, and then his face breaks into that wide, cheeky grin. "Oh, wow," he laughs. "Tommy, you sure have a firecracker here, don't you?" He pulls the knife from her grip and releases her hair only to grab her neck up by her chin, nearly choking her, and placing the blade against her cheek. "I'm going to have to up my game if I'm going to keep up with your little bad-ass here. Maybe..." He slides the knife up. "An eye? Or maybe..." And the knife glides toward her lips, "the old Joker routine. Did you see that movie? I thought it was hilarious how he kept ripping people's cheeks open, didn't you, with those stupid little stories he kept making up?"

Rose braces herself. She went too far -- but she would rather bring it on herself than....

"August!" comes Tom's cracked voice. "Don't! Alright, alright..."

Tempest's eyes rise up as Tom's urgent protestations soften. Rose doesn't think she's ever heard that tone from him, ever. Tempest's smile is gleeful, triumphant. But Rose's knees are going to give way. Tom had always been the steel in both their spines, and to hear him like this...so broken, so exhausted...

"I'll sign." He sounds so defeated, even now that he has Tempest's attention. "On one condition. Rose and William are released, and safe. You give me your word, August, and I'll sign."

Tempest lets out his breath, a deep, satisfied sigh. "Very well. Hadley, uncuff the man. Can't do anything useful with his hands behind his back."

Tempest lets go, and Rose staggers back a few steps. She looks down -- blood is soaking through the shimmering deep gray fabric of her dress, turning it black. The two gashes in her chest continue to run, and she has no way of stopping it, cleaning it, anything. Her palm is filled with blood, it drips from her fingers into a pool on the floor. Then, suddenly, in front of her is a silken handkerchief. She glances up -- Tempest holds it out, and his expression, while not entirely apologetic, is definitely not taking delight in her particular situation.

Having no other option, Rose takes the handkerchief, and even though its a sopping mess within seconds, it offers some minimal comfort. Tempest turns and murmurs at one of his men -- one of the Goons who held her before -- and the man skirts out of the room. Tempest turns back, and sees the solemn glare -- not so different from Tom's -- she's giving him.

"It's just business," Tempest says, as if that excuses him.

Rose snorts, pressing the handkerchief to her chest. Of course her hand is only making the situation worse, but she is currently stuck.

Tempest turns back to Hadley. "What's the delay?" he asks with a dissatisfied frown. Rose looks up and realizes that Hadley is staring at her, pale. Frozen. Beads of sweat trickle down from his hairline to his temples and disappear down his cheeks. Exertion from knocking the snot out of Tom? No, from the way his eyes meet hers, he actually looks like he's going to be sick. But when his eyes flicker back to Tempest, she catches a spark of...rage?

This doesn't make sense to her. She shoves it aside, in favor of realizing how Tom is shifting in his restraints. He's in pain -- they could untie him and there is literally nothing he could do, unless they're stupid enough to hand him a weapon.

"Hadley," Tempest says with barely restrained irritation. Hadley turns, something defiant in his stance, and goes to unlock Tom's cuffs.

The man Tempest sent from the room appears at her side, holding a thick hand towel. Rose drops the ruined handkerchief and grasps the absorbent cotton. The slashes on her chest have slowly started to clot, so it is her hand that mostly benefits from the towel, as she wraps it around her limb. It's soaked through quickly, but better than nothing.

Tempest steps past her, closer to Tom. He pulls out the documents he had stashed in his coat pocket, and lays them down on a small table that had been shoved against the wall, previously. Rose winces at the groan that comes from Tom as he is pulled to his feet, but Tom manages to shake off Hadley's grip -- admittedly it wasn't tight, obviously Hadley knows Tom is, physically, a minimal threat -- and straighten his broad shoulders as he walks toward the table. 

Tom stops and meets Tempest's eyes. "Your word, August. Rose and Will are safe. You won't do anything further to cause them any kind of harm, physical or otherwise."

"Absolutely, my word," Tempest says with a hint of a grin. "And no hard feelings, I hope. It is, like I said, just business."

Tom gives an almost imperceptible nod. "Where is our son?" he asks, his voice a bit softer, allowing the ragged edges of his pain to show.

"He'll be brought to you as soon as you sign these papers," Tempest says. "Can't show you all my cards yet."

Tom hesitates. Then, with a resigned heave of breath, he takes the pen Tempest offers.

"Good choice," Tempest says, motioning towards the documents.

"I couldn't agree less," comes a familiar voice from the doorway. Rose turns, alarm flooding her. She hears an even more familiar and much more endearing cry, which quickly turns into a wail, calling her a name it's felt like forever since she's heard.

"Mama!" Thomas William Hiddleston the Second calls, little hands outstretched toward her, and Rose sees him in the arms of none other than Ben Kingsley.

"Take this unruly creature, would you?" Ben says over the fussing boy, and Rose steps forward almost before he finishes speaking.

Will falls into her arms, blood forgotten, and she presses him tightly to the side of her that is not bright red. He wraps his small arms around her neck and clings hard, and in his own way communicates to her his unhappiness that she has been absent for so long. There are no words on his part, just garbled babbling that reaches a high pitch at several points even as she strokes his blond curls and kisses his cheeks, cooing to him how much she loved him and missed him, rocking him gently to settle him down, because as happy as she is to be with him again -- finally! -- they are not out of danger. Their guard cannot be let down.

She glances up. Ben is coolly surveying the situation, and looking with particular distaste at Tom. The older man directs his angry glare at Hadley. "I see you've had your bit of fun. Surprising, then, that you couldn't do what you were asked _before._ "

Before...before when Hadley almost killed her? When he said it would be better for her to live so they could capture Tom? How does Ben know...unless...

Oh hell. Apparently, this is not a rescue.


	31. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *****This is the first chapter that I’ve written that I had to stop while writing and put my head down on the desk for awhile. So before you sit down to read — grab a box of chocolate, or a drink, or whatever something provides you comfort. There are sensitive themes held within. Extreme violence. Proceed with caution.*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

Being pulled to his feet has made him see spots, but Tom does his best to ignore them. There’s too much at stake to focus on something as trivial as pain right now. Admittedly, the pen being offered to him is not much of a weapon but it is most likely the only one he can wield at the moment. Hadley’s half-hearted hold on his arm is easily shaken. At least the traitor will grant him that small bit of respect – allowing him to stand on his own two feet as he signs off on his most-likely gruesome death.

Tempest’s glee over his newly acquired title, once Tom signs the document, will be short lived. Ben will see to that. The head of the Crime Lord network will react swiftly to the loss of his protégée. The old saying – it is better to ask forgiveness than consent – does not hold true when it comes to Kingsley.

This foolhardy American Crime Lord will learn just how unyielding Ben Kingsley can be when power plays are carried out without approval.

“I couldn’t agree less.”

As though summoned, Ben is there, his stern voice commanding the attention of all present in the security room. Tempest scuttles to reclaim the folio of documents from the table before turning to face the head of the Crime Lord network.

Ben will right the world – Tom’s world – that has been spinning off its axis for days now. A feeling akin to relief floods through Tom. Maybe, if he wasn’t so pained by the slightest inhalation, he might have allowed himself a deep sigh at the arrival of aid.

Someone had finally grown wise to the chaos taking place under this roof and alerted those at the Crime Lord Estate. Kingsley is here now, here to dispense with his own form of justice. If others fear what Tom will do in any given situation, it pales in comparison to how Kingsley maintains order.

The old wolf rarely bares his teeth these days but when he does, he always draws blood.

Feeling Ben’s scrutiny of his appearance, Tom does his best to stand tall – years of expectations and behavior conditioning coming into play. He’s looked worse, maybe… no, probably not.  Not even when Ben walked into his life all those years ago…

When he turns to give a small nod of thanks to his mentor he is surprised to find Ben holding a little boy.

There’s no mistaking those features. Dimples that mirror his own, blonde curls juxtaposed against a familiarly ruddy skin-tone – the boy’s nose and lips a minute version of Rose’s…

William.

This is his son. This little being that is all arms and legs and squeals, and demanding his mother’s embrace… Rose wraps up his tiny form in her arms, pressing aside golden curls to litter the little boy’s face with kisses.

Everything else in the room is forgotten as Tom stands apart, watching mother and child. For a brief moment even the pains of his body subside. This is what he’s been fighting for these past few days: these two people.

These two people are all that matter.

Everything that matters.

Though inopportune, the fairytale starts to form – a dream world – wherein coloring books are strewn across the floor of the study, something to occupy young William while Rose and Tom work. A pool being installed for swim lessons. Will running like a madman through the hallways of the newly child-proofed Hiddleston estate, leaving a trail of powdered sugar behind him. Will squealing with delight at the way his parents play-chase him through the house, snuggling into his mother’s arms when she catches him.

But something about the scene raises Tom’s hackles. William’s squeals of delight, turned sour – the sound melding the daydream into something more from Tom’s nightmares.

Rose coated in blood.

And little Will – little Will’s hands dripping in it.

Tom blinks but the vision won’t fade – because it is the scene he sees before him. He turns to Ben for help, guidance, reassurance, but finds the older man glaring beyond him to where Hadley is standing.

Displeased by the disloyalty? Mark down two for that sentiment.

The relief that has flooded Tom’s system evaporates when Ben speaks, his gaze still fixed over Tom’s shoulder, on Hadley. “I see you’ve had your bit of fun. Surprising, then, that you couldn’t do what you were asked, _before_.”

But Hadley was a traitor – working with _Tempest_ to bring Tom to his knees, to strip him of his power….

The blow rendered by mere words does more damage than every minute of the prolonged beating Tom has just endured. Ben? Behind all of this? Pulling all the strings… to what end? And what, what on God’s green Earth did Tom do to move Ben to take such action against him?

What has he ever done, but exactly as Ben desired? He’s fulfilled every wish – performed every task above and beyond what was expected of him – molded himself into the cold, cruel London Lord of Crime – all under the direction of the elder man’s guidance.

Their relationship extends beyond the criminal network – the mentor to protégée dynamic. They’d spent holidays together. Ben had – Ben is – Ben was….

Sensing Tom’s inability to flounder past this shock, Ben slides his gaze over to meet Tom’s. He always could see past whatever walls Tom tried to throw up to block out the outside world. “And you, Tom.” His eyes are cold, flicking down to the pen Tom still clutches before meeting Tom’s gaze again. “I’m disappointed.”  

_Disappointed._

Disappointed? He’d held – held against Hadley’s battering. How can that be a disappointment? What more could he have done? He’s been backing slowly into this corner, every move undertaken in the past few days seemingly pushing him closer and closer to the wall.

 _Couldn’t do what he’d been asked, **before**. _ Ben’s words. And another distant echo of conversation, accidentally overheard: _With any luck, the flower problem will be resolved before the month is out._

“All the hard work, Tom. All the _years_ spent. Wasted. And for what. A woman?” The corner of his mouth twitches into a snarl in the silence that follows. He expects an answer.

What can be said in answer, other than the truth? It won’t win him any favors, but there is no use trying to mince words with his mentor. He would – he would go through hell and back to save her. Tom can’t pull his eyes away from the elder man. “Yes.”

Kingsley juts out his chin as he tilts his head ever so slightly. He hasn’t given up on Tom, yet. Though Ben is clearly incensed, Tom can still see a glint of hope shining through Ben’s eyes, some small piece of him that still sees Tom as a son – still ever wanting to teach him, guide him. “She is a _weakness_ , boy. She is a distraction from all that we have worked for. Can you not see that?”

“I love her.”

“You lust after her.” Ben scolds. “I was there the day you were introduced, remember. And for that, for lust, you’re willing to toss aside the title I gifted you--”

“I _earned_ that title!” Momentarily forgetting his condition, Tom tries to shout, only to be sharply reminded of the state of his ribs.

Ben shakes his head, “You took what you were _given._ I should have placed you elsewhere, you foolish boy. A matter soon rectified. I’ll have a look at that paperwork now, Tempest. Trust me, Yank, we’ll be discussing your actions at length…” Ben turns, still talking to August to find the man is no longer standing behind him. He shifts further to then look to the open door and the hallway beyond. He heaves a breath and waves a hand at the guards that had accompanied him into the room, “Find him.”

Five of them remain in the room – Rose, cradling William in her arms, trying to comfort him as they stand huddled in the far corner of the room, Ben – taking up a position between their location and where Tom stands, with Hadley inching forward to stand next to Tom. Uninjured, Tom may be a physical threat to Ben, but in his current condition Hadley’s vigilance is unnecessary.

Whatever reprieve Tom might have enjoyed from Ben’s malice is now lost. Without Tempest to distract, Ben’s attention turns back to Tom, Rose, and William. His eyes flit over Tom’s swelling features, “My network, under so much stress. All rooted to one gangly youth from Westminster. I’m wondering, now, if I should have just left you there to join your family on the floor of that flat. Let them finish the job they had started and fill the seven graves they had dug.”

Tom’s throat starts to tighten. They didn’t speak of this.

“Your arrogance was what drew them to you, to your family’s home… What child encroaches upon an established black-market enterprise and then manages to outsell them in the same year?” Ben’s focus of the memory is of course the exact opposite of the images conjured when Tom recalls the same time period. Ben had swooped in at the last minute, a swift hand coming down to kill the men that had broken in. He only knew of the actions leading up to that moment through careful nurturing of the blood-soaked young teen he had rescued.

The years of Tom watching his parents struggle to support the ever growing family. The decision, as the eldest son, to try to help in any way he could. First it had been stealing, but even that hadn’t been enough. He had a knack for it, for learning details and manipulating events around him. It had been an easy thing to branch out – but, as Ben said, it had drawn unwanted attention.

An upstart? A _child_ no less.

Threats came at first. Then demands for payment for protection. All the while they allowed him to continue – perhaps marveling at the talent shown by one so young. The sum they required continually rose, trying to discourage him, convince him to merge with them.

And then they came, that night.

They’d beaten him, mercilessly, but he was unyielding.

But the profit was _his._ It belonged to his family!

_Arrogant._

Well. They took care of that. Too many mouths to feed, young Thomas? Let us help.

His little brother first, eyes pleading.

Six.

The oldest of his sisters next, sobbing for her brother to help her.

Five.

The other two sisters, huddled together. No pleas for mercy were granted.

Four.

Three.

Only parents left, young man. Mother, rendered immobile from grief. Father, drunk as usual and unable to do anything but watch. See how they look upon you now? Their little savior?

And then there was one.

Only one sobbing voice in the room, barely audible over the jeers delivered as the gang members beat him. Until Ben….

“You showed such promise.” Ben’s words break Tom from the spell the memory has put him under. “You’ve just lost your focus, once again.”

Tom sways on his feet. He knows what is going to happen next. Ben has practically spelled it out for him already. Hadley moves along with Tom, advancing the few steps towards Ben. The elder man watches with a near-amused expression, letting his eyes drift to Hadley to indicate Tom shouldn’t be allowed to advance any further than _right there_.

“The Yank had the right concept –“ Ben almost sounds _proud_ – the intonation in Kingsley’s voice used to be something Tom longed for, now it furthers his nausea. “I think, though, you need help retaining this lesson.” Ben nods his head to the corner where Rose is cradling William, doing her best to keep him sheltered by covering his eyes and ears with her hands. “Choose.”

The choice has already been made. Why is he asking again? If it ensures their safety Tom has already said he is willing to forego _everything_ …

But then Ben reaches around and removes his gun from its holster. He makes a show of popping out the clip and emptying it of the extra bullets. Down each of them tumble, clattering to the floor. Then he holds the gun out towards Tom.

“Hiddleston, I didn’t devote all those years just to have you walk away. You know it isn’t as easy as that.” He moves the gun just slightly to draw Tom’s gaze back down to it again. “Shoot one, keep the other. Although I’d suggest concentrating on your future. Retain the legacy and find him a more suitable mother.”

One bullet. One bullet remaining.

He could use it to shoot Ben. But then there’s Hadley to contend with – and in his condition Hadley would have the upper hand by merely making Tom shift too quickly on his feet. Tom considers the minefield before him, between where he stands and the corner where Rose is wedged. One wrong step and he’ll lose his footing, and he certainly can’t stoop to gather more ammo.

Carefully, he takes a step forward to accept the weapon, and then another, under the watchful gaze of Kingsley. Tom tests his arm, wincing at the stabbing feeling that runs through his side. He’ll manage. He has to manage this.

Hadley still hovers, waiting to see how Tom will react. If Tom turns to point the gun at Ben, Hadley will probably spring and rip the weapon from him before he can even raise his arm to aim. He needs a bit of distance. Tom continues to glance between his feet and the gun, watching his steps – all the while playacting that he’s trying to figure out how to raise his arm and aim the weapon.

One more sidestep and – there.

Now he stands between Ben’s location and the corner where his family huddles. “No.”

“No?” Ben’s eyebrows raise.

Before any command can be given, before more threats can be issued, Tom grits his teeth and takes aim. Gun to his temple, he stares Ben down defiantly, “No. I’ll spend your bullet here – and then all your years guiding me _will_ be a waste.” He’s on a roll now. “Release them. Call everyone off and let them walk out of our lives, forever.”

Ben doesn’t let his confidence slip, he’s too well practiced. “You foolish boy. How long do you think you can maintain your aim? Hurts, doesn’t it, to hold your arm in such a way.” He grins, a slow thing that expands into something gruesome, “And when you do slip – the moment you lower that weapon Hadley will have it from you and then _the both of them are dead._ ”


	32. Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rose]

_"I love her."_

Those three words are all Rose hears. She hears them, not spoken to her, but to Ben. To someone whom Tom would never, ever lie. Pure, unbroken truth.

He loves her.

She knew this. She always knew this. In the early days, he'd even told her. When he'd given her the opals that still sit on her neck. In the afterglow of the first time they were together, and in many afterglows since. Fewer and farther between as the years passed, but it would still come, but only in moments of compromise. Moments that made it easier to think he'd just said it in the heat of some passion.

But now, in the face of all they've endured this day, he says it.

_“All the hard work, Tom. All the_ _years_ _spent. Wasted. And for what. A woman?”_

_Yes._

The words sink through her. And sink. And sink. Like there is no bottom, they can't reach deep enough. She even misses when Tempest leaves hastily, although Ben notices it, and sends whatever goons are left, leaving only him and Hadley to deal with Tom, her and their child.

She clutches Will to her, the terror for her son suddenly all consuming as Ben rips into his protégée, viciously, dragging things into the light that crush and tear at Tom -- she can see his face. She can see how he wilts and cracks, Ben's words more to bear than any of Hadley's blows.

Rose never knew what happened to Tom's family. She knew he was born, somewhere. She knew his family was dead. She didn't know how, or why. She didn't know that Ben had saved his life, took him in, had been a...but she can see it now. Tom never spoke of it, and now she understands why. The pain is too much. The loss is too much. And Ben knows that. He knows exactly what weapons to use against Tom. Exactly how to bend and twist and shape them to break Tom into smaller pieces that Ben will use.

So even at Tom's declaration of love, she clutches Will tighter, Will who is scared by the amount of blood on his mother's chest and hands, who is streaked with it, who knows instinctively that this is bad, that they are in danger. She presses her son against her chest, burying his head in the crook of her neck so he can't see, covering his ear with her bandaged hand, the other one pressed down against her collarbone. She doesn't want him to see what is coming.

The gun. The bullets on the floor. Ben holding the gun out to Tom.

"Choose."

Tom doesn't understand. He blinks, his eyes flittering over everything in the room. Tempest had demanded that Tom choose but Tom had already made a choice, so Ben must mean...

“Shoot one, keep the other. Although I’d suggest concentrating on your future. Retain the legacy and find him a more suitable mother.”

A more _suitable_...when did Ben come to hate her so much? Was it jealousy? Did she have that much pull, that much influence on Tom that even from thousands of miles and years of distance, she was a threat to Tom's standing?

 _It was because you left,_ the little voice tells her. _You walked away, and Tom let you. He didn't hunt you down, he didn't end your life like he most likely should have. He watched over your charity. He replaced the clothes in your wardrobe. He kept your necklace in his safe, as well as the ring he was going to use to make you his wife. And when you were in danger, he was right there. He turned everything upside-down to keep you alive, to protect you._

_Ben hates you_ **because** _Tom loves you, and that makes your influence stronger than anyone else's, even his._

And Tom was willing to sacrifice for that love. Sacrifice his livelihood, his safety, possibly his life. He was willing to sacrifice having her with him, if that was what it took.

Rose cannot stop the tears that run in rivulets down her face.

But Tom...is taking the gun. And he shuffles. He's been severely injured, ribs cracked, organs bruised. He walks slowly, maneuvering himself...

"Tom," Rose manages, almost unable to speak past the huge throbbing ball of emotion that has lodged itself in the back of her throat. He doesn't hear her, he's concentrating.

What is he doing? Trying to... _no, he wouldn't. Not after all this, not after everything he's done._

_But this is Ben. Ben who knows him more about him than you ever will. Ben who molded him._

_And Ben says to kill you._

Her eyes flick to Hadley. Hadley had managed to save her, before. He could have just followed orders but he didn't. And if Hadley was willing to defy orders, surely Tom...

Rose's heartbeat increases, and the thumping unsettles Will, who squirms in her grip. The euphoria of being reunited with his mother has started to ebb and now the little boy grows impatient, wanting to know what is going on, even if he can't understand it.

She will not let anything happen to him. She calls Tom's name again, still not getting through. Tom is either deliberately ignoring her or is legitimately so focused he hears nothing. Or he is blocking her out in preparation for ---

_No. no no no..._

Still, all things are possible. Ben snapped Tom into little pieces before, who knows where his mind is right now? She cannot take the risk.

"William," she murmurs to her little boy, letting him lift his head, grasping his chin so that he is firmly turned to her. "Will, I am going to put you down. You are going to walk over to that man." She lets Will look at his father. "He won't hurt you. This is your daddy."

"No," Will says, one of the few words he says clearly. "'Ommy..."

"Tom!" Rose says a bit louder. She wants him to take his son. She knows what he has to do.

But Tom remains silent, not arguing with Ben. Not saying anything, just moving himself...between her and Ben.

The thought that Tom might actually kill her would have seemed reasonable as little as a week ago. Three days ago. But now...she can't bring herself to think he would, not after everything. Not after _this_.

Wait a minute. Hadley is moving, too. He is looking down at the ground, at the bullets. His eyes shift, not concentrating on Tom, who could reasonably be a threat. Or maybe Hadley is just confident enough in his work of working over Tom that he doesn't think he's a danger to his boss or himself. His foot slides against a bullet, keeping it from rolling away.

Rose looks at Tom, who is firmly between her and Ben. And then Tom looks up at his mentor, his pseudo-father for who-knew-how-many-years, and says the one word that she honestly expected but didn't let herself believe he'd say.

"No."

Ben blinks with disbelief. He echoes the word. "No?"

And then Tom does what Rose would never have expected. He puts the damn gun to his own damn head.

“No. I’ll spend your bullet here – and then all your years guiding me _will_ be a waste.

She nearly cries out in outrage. But sound is something that is beyond her at the moment.

"Release them. Call everyone off and let them walk out of our lives, forever.”

Ben doesn't even flinch. “You foolish boy. How long do you think you can maintain your aim? Hurts, doesn’t it, to hold your arm in such a way.”

Even from behind, Rose can see Ben is right. The muscles in Tom's arm tremble even at the simple pressure of being held up.

“And when you do slip – the moment you lower that weapon Hadley will have it from you and then _the both of them are dead._ ”

He's right. Rose knows he's right.

"Tom!" It takes the effort of a shout to finally get loud enough for him to hear. She isn't sure that he does, until she says, "Take Will!"

Tom doesn't move. He's locked into a course of action -- or he's lost his mind. Maybe both.

"Please, Tom!" Rose realizes she's sobbing. "If you don't...we're all dead!"

Tom turns his head the slightest bit, not taking his eyes from Ben or Hadley...Hadley, who is shifting around, not seeming at all alarmed by the fact that Tom has a gun to his head.

"Please take Will." Rose loosens her hold, although Will just clings to her harder. "Please Tom. Don't be reckless." Her earlier words, hoping to get through to him. "Take your son. Ben's right, you have to think...think of your future."

Tom flinches. His twitching indicates he wants to turn to her, wants to argue, but the pressure and pain of maintaining his position must be taking all he has. "I can't, Rose," is all he manages in a strained voice.

"You can," Ben says, sounding almost bored. "At least your woman has some sense. Take your son, Tom, and do what is necessary. So we can end all this ugly business."

This _ugly business_...Rose shuts her eyes, presses her face against Will's curls, kisses his head, and then bends to put the boy down.

"Rose," Tom suddenly says. "Rose, get me another bullet."

Rose freezes. What good would that do? Hadley must be...

No, Hadley isn't armed. His waist is empty, he'd been pummeling Tom, a gun in his belt would have obstructed his movements. And Ben pulled the gun from his own holster. So does that mean the only loaded weapon in the room is in Tom's hands?

A loaded weapon that Tom slowly extends from his hand to point at Ben, then Hadley, then Ben again? As if trying to choose?

One bullet won't save them. One will die but one will be left. Tom is too injured to take on Hadley, and even though Ben is older, he probably doesn't even have the strength for that.

"Whichever one of you wants to try to take this gun from me," Tom says, his tone taunting, "is going to die. The other one might get me, but the first one will be dead. So who wants to try?" He swings the gun lightly from Ben to Hadley, but Rose can see the tremors in his muscles as he struggles against the pain of this simple movement. "Who's game?"

Ben lets out a frustrated sigh. "Enough. Hadley, take the gun. Do what you were supposed to do earlier."

But Hadley doesn't. Instead, he shuffles his foot. And one bullet rolls straight up to Rose. All she has to do is reach over and take it.

Hadley looks up at Ben, and raises one dark eyebrow. _Fuck you_ , it says, as clear as if he'd used words.

Tom jerks the gun toward Ben, who glares at the twice-traitor, and then lunges forward, faster than any of them were expecting. Tom fires--

And hits Ben square in the chest.

But Ben doesn't fall. He flinches, jerks, but doesn't fall.

Ben looks at the bullet hole in his dress shirt and then up at Tom, and shakes his head.

"Ruin my good shirt. There is no end to your list of infractions tonight, boy."

A vest, Rose realizes, seeing the grayish material behind the hole. Ben is wearing a vest. Of course he would. He must have planned all of this, the great puppet master, pulling everyone's strings.

Ben reaches down and removes a smaller pistol from an ankle holster. Of course Ben wouldn't give the only loaded weapon in the room away, not even to Tom, unless he had a back-up.

And then everything explodes.

Ben levels the gun at her, and she turns, hauling Will back up into her arms, shielding him with her body.

Tom throws himself at Ben, and while unable to physically harm the man, he can at least throw off his aim. The first bullet goes into the ceiling.

Hadley starts to charge forward.

Tom wrestles with Ben, but it is obvious that he is no match for the older man. Cracked ribs and bruised organs make him easy to toss aside, but Tom is stubborn and refuses to go down, even though he is nearly gray from the pain.

The second bullet goes into the wall behind Rose's head.

Hadley reaches the midpoint between Tom and Rose.

Tom is on the floor, where Ben shoved him. The gun Ben gave him sits where he dropped it. He grabs at the bullets and hastily thrusts them into the clip.

Ben fires the gun again, and this time--

Hadley falls.

The bullet goes into Hadley's back, and he crumples forward. The bullet, if it had passed through, would have gone right into Rose. When he falls, he nearly lands on her, but she instinctively rolls away. She lands on her knees, still holding Will. Her ears ring from the firing bullets, but she can hear Will screaming with terror.

"No!" The word is Rose's, and it's enough to make Ben pause.

And that's when Tom gets a bullet into Ben's ankle. Which is not covered by a vest.

Ben's scream is not manly. In his fall he nearly loses hold of his weapon. Tom is there, both of them grappling for Ben's gun, and it skitters across the room, toward the door.

And that is exactly when Mark enters the room.

Rose doesn't know whether to be afraid or relieved.

Mark's eyes sweep the situation. "Well," he says, clearing his throat. "What fun have I been missing?"


	33. Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

Protect them.

Protect them.

Rose and Will.

_Protect them._

For the first time the voice within his head is urgent, pleading, in its demands.

And the source of the threat is Ben. Ben with the gun pointed at them. Ben ready to take away the last of Tom’s hope.

Pointing the loaded weapon at Ben and pulling the trigger had done nothing. This was all just another elaborate test of Tom’s character. Ben had seen this coming, and, as he always did, came prepared.

A vest.

"Ruin my good shirt. There is no end to your list of infractions tonight, boy." Ben tuts Tom, just as he had when Tom was a teen under his care.

And then the elder man stoops, lifting the cuff of his slacks to retrieve a second, presumably loaded, weapon – which he then lifts to aim at Rose.

_No!_

Having spent the only bullet in the chamber Tom does the only thing he can – block the line of fire with his body and hope that he can manage to wrestle this secondary weapon from Ben’s grasp. He charges Ben, thrusting the older man’s arms upward which sends the shot up into the surface above them.

There isn’t any time to further consider Hadley’s actions. His former head-of-household has done the unexpected – seemingly changing sides in this conflict. He’s taking a chance, focusing solely on Ben. He could be wrong. He could be misjudging Hadley once more, but he has to believe he’s better at reading people than that. Whatever Hadley’s reasons for turning against Tom, surely that anger will not be transferred to Rose and Will.

Despite his desperation to succeed, his body is in no condition to maintain the force needed to achieve his goals.  “No…” he groans aloud as the second shot rings out, still wide of its intended target. But Ben’s aim is improving. And Tom’s strength is fading.

All Ben has to do is twist to press –

     _just_

_there_

_–_ and Tom is down, tossed to the floor. The dead weight that is Tom’s empty weapon is jostled from his grasp upon impact, the useless thing clattering to the floor along with him.

But also on the floor with him are bullets. Bullets scattered close by. Bullets he can reload and use to defend his family. Suddenly the gun isn’t useless. Tom scrambles to scoop the gun up again. His fingers fumble through motions that should be simplistic. The bullets seem to all spin away from his limited reach. He doesn’t need a full clip, just a few – just what is needed to keep Rose and William alive.

Tom is not there to block the third shot, he isn’t even watching, too busy trying to focus on the currently blurry object in his hands. The sound of it causes him to jerk which sends a fresh wave of agony coursing through his body, though his vision jumps into focus once more.

“No!”

It takes him a second to realize that his voiced protestation had been drowned out by Rose’s shout. He trusts his hands to complete the action of loading the gun to look to her fate – praying he isn’t adding another nightmare to the already well stocked dossier in his head.

Rose is on her knees, still cradling William against her. Panic grips him momentarily before he realizes that Rose’s cry hadn’t been for their child, but for Hadley.

Hadley is slumped in the floor between them, unmoving.

While Tom had been focused on Ben, Hadley had run to protect Rose and William from harm? After all that they have endured by his hand…

No time. No time for that. Tom shudders with the effort it takes to hoist his arm once more and takes aim. He hits Ben’s lower leg - the ankle. It isn’t a kill shot – the wound delivered much less than the old wolf deserves – but it is to a part of the body that Tom is sure isn’t protected by a fucking vest.

And judging by Ben’s scream, and the way he crumples down to join Tom on the floor, it hurts.

The sound is music to Tom’s ears.

The old man is down, but not yet removed as a threat. Tom braces to hoist himself up knowing full well that every additional movement risks further injury. He’ll worry about his own state _after_ he gets Rose and William out of this.

_Gain the upper hand!_

Tom needs to get the gun from Ben to ensure that… or remove the gun from play. Rather than struggle to twist himself around and wrench the weapon from Ben's floundering form, Tom merely kicks out, slamming the heel of his shoe into Ben's hand. One more kick dislodges the weapon from his mentor’s grasp and, along with the satisfying crack of delicate finger bones, sends the gun spiraling out the open security room door and into the hallway beyond.

The delivered kicks have twisted his body. Now every additional movement is torturous. He needs to sit, and breathe, and bleed – but the job isn’t done. He needs to check on Rose and William – and Hadley…

He has only managed to slightly lift himself up from the floor when Mark’s chuckle breaks through the throbbing pulse predominating his head, “Well. What fun have I been missing?”

Clenching his jaw and holding his midsection, Tom tries to right himself with some semblance of dignity. He can’t get himself turned to try to push up from his knees to stand. Having his arm pressed across his torso doesn’t do much to prevent pain, but at least lets him sit in a halfway normal manner.

From his seated position on the floor he tilts his head upwards to address Mark, “Mark….”

Ben is talking as well, recovering enough from the injuries delivered by Tom to try to drown out whatever Tom might try to say to sway Mark. “About damned time, Strong.”

Mark looks between the two wounded men, the slight smirk that had been on his face when he appeared in the doorway growing with each passing moment. He motions between Tom and Ben – with Ben’s secondary sidearm, Tom notes with annoyance.

How many bullets had he managed to reload into the clip? He'd fired one bullet into Ben's leg but... Tom’s brain is fuzzy on the count. Better to squash his uncertainty and let everyone, including himself, presume he’s still armed. He doesn’t move to lift his arm yet, better to conserve his energy for when it is needed. Better to wait to see what Mark does.

_Don’t let him see the damage. Don’t show just how immobile you are…_

Tom takes a shallow breath and pushes as much bravado into the statement as he can muster. “You’ve caught us in the middle of a disagreement.”

“Disagreement?” Mark huffs, still smiling that practiced Crime Lord smile. “And here I thought you saved all your asinine behavior for me, alone.” He still hasn’t moved from the doorway. Still hasn’t shown his hand. Clearly he’s enjoying himself.

Mark’s loyalty is the question. Tom needs Mark’s loyalty to shift. While faithful to the network, thereby Kingsley, maybe Tom can play to Mark’s desire for power. If Mark chooses to shoot someone, Tom wants it to be Ben. He speaks quickly, before Ben can start in on Mark with his own angle. ”I want out, Mark. Ben would rather I kill Rose, and our son, William.”

“Hmm.”

“Thought I’d settle it by killing Ben, instead.” Really, at this point, he should be aiming at Ben – better to continue to wait out Mark, though. Rose is in motion, bringing herself and William closer to his side. He’d wave her away – he doesn’t want her in harm’s way – but at this point she’d be better off as the one holding the gun, even if it is empty. The best defense he can offer her is being her human shield.

Ben is quick to offer up his own suggestion, trying to reestablish command of the room. “Mark, kill Tom – kill him and the London title is yours.” His ploy is to appeal to Mark’s desire for power as well, offering up the thing that Mark has always coveted – the London Crime Lord title.

Tom can practically see the odds shifting against him.

But Mark doesn’t lift his arm to aim at Tom, not yet. Instead he looks from Ben to the gun in Tom’s hand, a wordless question.

“It’s _empty_. Shoot him.”

Tom’s eyebrows twitch at Ben’s tone. The additional words left off from the order given to Mark – _you_ _imbecile_ – rings clear, despite remaining unspoken. He keeps his focus split between the two predators, determined to set one against the other. “Why settle for London, mate? Why not take the entire network as yours?” He releases his side and shifts, vision swimming momentarily, to reach his now free hand behind his back. He reaches as far as he is able to see if Rose has made it far enough to – yes. He feels the curious brush of fabric being pressed into his hand. Her – stockings? What the bloody hell is he supposed to accomplish with those?

Mark has also noted her approach, as well as the tiny form clinging to her torso. “Rosaline, I see you found what you were after. Clean up the lad and leave me to clean up this… mess.”

_Yes. Leave. Escape._

“I’m not leaving without Tom.”

Her voice comes steady from behind him. She’d placed her stockings in his hand but hadn’t made contact with him since. Is she just off his shoulder? Further than that? He can’t risk turning to look. He wants to reach out – grab her – shove her towards the door.

This shouldn’t be an argument. She’s holding their son in her arms.  “Rose, _go_.”

“Tom…”

It isn’t much, in terms of displays of love and devotion, just a few simple words – but it is enough to set Ben off. “Enough!” he barks, “Kill them, Mark.”

“Them?" Mark’s smile is dissipating.

Tom’s spirits begin to lift. There is hope. Mark is starting to doubt. If Ben had continued on the path using the London title as a lure to accomplish his goals he might have retained Mark’s unflinching loyalty – but now?

Mark motions to mother and child. "To what end? They hold no power..."

"They hold far too much!” Ben is snarling and cradling his injured hand. Unable to stand or to use his dominant hand the old wolf is left to sputter out his intentions. He’s still so very sure they will be obeyed. “One whispered word – _one_ – and he forgot every lesson I ever taught him. More inclined to question than to obey – and make a _mess_ of my streets.” He turns his head, locking his focus on Tom as he snarls the final order. “Kill. Them. Mark. One last lesson to learn before the end of his reign as London Lord of Crime."

It is a last strike – the last blow delivered – meant to shatter Tom. Ben’s order is meant to punish, meant to inflict the maximum amount of pain: forcing Tom to once more watch those dearest to him die. Rather than stare down the old man, Tom deliberately shifts to watch Mark. If Mark moves to obey Tom will move to counter. Ben may also believe the gun in Tom’s possession to be empty but until Tom squeezes the trigger and the chamber clicks –

Rose’s hand settles onto Tom’s shoulder. She’s able to see it before Tom can, how unnecessary it is to lift the weapon against Mark. The Crime Lord’s shoulders are held rigid, his mouth twisted in a grim thin line. It is an expression of dismay, of distrust, of disobedience.

“You would do this – because he values them? Because he tried to protect them?” Mark takes a step into the room, not far, just enough to settle himself more firmly into the chaos. He lifts his eyebrows and furrows them together causing wrinkles and ridges to appear on his forehead. Mark motions to the room now surrounding him while giving his head a little shake. “You fault Tom this mess. You fault him for reacting to your threats against his family… We all have family, Ben.”

Slowly, he aims at the elder man.

“What happens when I claim the London title and displease you in some way? What happens then? Would you use my family against me, as you have him?”

Ben is snarling but still Tom doesn’t remove his gaze from Mark as Ben spits the words out. “Insubordinate. Foolish…” Ben doesn’t manage a third word before Mark shoots him, causing Ben to shout out and clutch with his one good hand at the knee above the already injured ankle.

“Keep talking. I’ll aim higher.”

There had been no hesitance from Mark. Pop. Mangled knee.

It’s all the action Tom needs to see to reassure himself that Mark has fallen in with him against Ben. Tom drops the weapon he’s been gripping, not even bothering to check to see if it was indeed loaded.

It doesn’t matter anymore.

He grits his teeth and starts to shift to stand, feeling Rose readily move to support him and help him up. It takes a moment to manage, and in that moment Ben’s groans mix in with Tom’s. Once upright, Tom tries not to lean too heavily into Rose, who has shifted William around in her arms in an attempt to provide a shoulder for him.

They need to leave before Mark reconsiders, or Ben finds something more tempting than titles to offer. Supplies are locked away in the safe in his study – passports and money – enough to get them out of the country. They’ll need to create paperwork for William, at some point. That can be seen to. Rose’s hand… they’ll pause to gather a kit from the guard station – there will be antiseptic and bandages to fix her up while on the move.

“Luck, mate.” He offers Mark a small nod in thanks.

Mark tilts his head slightly as the trio passes him, commenting to them over his shoulder as they pass through the doorway. “Way I see it, you’ll be needing the luck, _mate_.” He lifts his eyes momentarily from Ben to look at Tom. “It doesn’t end here.”

Tom stiffens. It isn’t exactly a threat. Perhaps it is meant merely as a statement of warning from the man soon to lead the Crime Lord network – but the pair of them have had years of being set against one another. Tom can still feel the menace hidden within the words. “It does, if you tell them I’m dead.”

Mark doesn’t reply, just shrugs and lets the family continue down the corridor. As they make slow progress through the hallways Ben’s groveling can be heard.

And then, it can’t. 


	34. Shock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rose]

Slowly, Rose starts to move toward Tom.

She isn't sure what good it will do. But she needs to be near him. Mark is a wildcard and she's had enough surprises this evening. As she moves, she feels the stockings she had shoved into her garter. She palms them in her hand, also not knowing what good it will do...unless she can get them around someone's neck.

When she does reach Tom, he slides his hand behind him toward her. Not knowing what he wants, she reaches out, placing the silk in his hands. He takes it, crushes it into his palm. She has no idea what he's thinking but has nothing else to offer.

And Ben...keeps talking. But his threats and promises aren't working. One would think that Mark would be quick to jump, just as quick as Tom ever was, to obey Ben. But no, the man hesitates. His eyes skim to her.

“Rosaline, I see you found what you were after. Clean up the lad and leave me to clean up this… mess.”

So Mark _does_ remember their earlier conversation...but it gives her a ridiculous amount of hope, that the man is not so cold blooded as to kill a woman and child without provocation.

“I’m not leaving without Tom.”

She's pushing -- she knows Tom wants her to go. She knows he will sacrifice himself, his life, for her and their son. But she won't let him. Not yet.

Apparently Tom's encouragement of her to leave and her refusal have provoked Ben into another fit.

“Kill. Them. Mark," he finishes with venom. "One last lesson to learn before the end of his reign as London Lord of Crime.”

But Rose sees Mark's eyes. She sees him thinking. She knows the look of a man who has something of value and contemplates it for a moment, being threatened, being lost. The look of someone realizing that they are in a bad situation -- and realizing the absolute best way for it to fall in their favor.

Tom still has the gun Ben gave him in his hand, and she sees that he hasn't raised it. He's waiting. He doesn't want to give away his last possible defense until he absolutely has to. So she places her hand on his shoulder to show him --

Mark isn't on Ben's side. Not anymore.

She feels the muscles in Tom's shoulders yield under her touch.

And then Mark shoots Ben. In the knee.

Tom lets go of the gun. She moves to pull him up. He lets her. It's time to go. She's only been half listening to Mark making a very sensible point about how everyone has family. She is torn between worry over Tom's injuries and the fact that Will has gone very quiet on her hip. Ben's insanity over all this has hardly had time to register. She'll twist it over in her brain later, when they are away from this place.

Tom allows her to take a little of his weight. She tries hard not to grip his ribcage the wrong way but she has to put her hand somewhere. She tentatively feels with her fingers and when Tom doesn't moan in pain she presses harder. Up toward his armpit seems to be the safest place.

Still, the two competitors can't help but exchange final words.

"Luck, mate," Tom says as they go past.

“Way I see it, you’ll be needing the luck, _mate_.” Mark favors him with a brief glance. “It doesn’t end here.”

“It does, if you tell them I’m dead.”

 _Dead..._ Rose turns her head, and sees Hadley, still lying on the floor. Hadley, who threw himself into the path of a bullet for her, for Will. Her stomach twists and she wants desperately to go to him, see if he's breathing, has a pulse. He hasn't moved, and there is a considerable amount of blood but...

_You can't. There's no chance. You have to think of Will. Think of Tom._

Mark doesn't answer Tom's implied request. But Tom walks on, his arm around her, hand on Will's back to press them all closer together. Apparently the threat will be analyzed later. They've been given a temporary pass. They'd be suicidal fools to waste it.

Outside the room, it seems that time has stopped. Everything is very still -- the monitors in the next room are all filled with static. Things are scattered as if a dervish passed through. There are a few wounded men meandering about, but nobody moves to stop them. There are smudges of blood, a few pools, but no bodies.

They are in the security wing. Tom is headed back into the heart of the house. They pause by the security headquarters when Tom says, "The med kit. Red bag. Should be under the cabinets, there." He motions. "Let me take Will--"

She gives a little inadvertent pull away from him. "Don't be ridiculous. You can barely stand." She shifts Will to her other hip and goes to the cabinet Tom indicated. The red bag is there like he said. She slings it over her shoulder and returns to him. The faster way out of the house is back the way they came and toward the garage, but he pushes forward on their current path.

"Tom. Stop. Please, let me look at you." He brushes her hand away before she can press too solidly on his ribs. She bites back her frustration -- he's doing too much, after that beating he took. Looking at his injuries might make him see some sense. If she's looking at them, he's bound to as well. "Where are you going? Will you stop?"

"Study. Passports, in the safe," he manages.

The safe in the study. Time is so precious right now. And they are, all of them to a certain extent, covered with blood.

"What about clothes?" Rose murmurs.

Tom shakes his head. "You're not leaving my sight. I can't manage the stairs. Clothes later." He reaches out, takes her free hand, and tugs lightly. It's not so far now to his intended destination and Tom pushes himself to pick up his pace, she can see the strain on his forehead.

The study. Rose feels a chill as she enters it...it's the last time she'll ever be in here, she realizes. Even in its mildly wrecked state, it holds so many memories. But she has little time to ponder as Tom hasn't stopped his steady track to the safe.

To her utter horror, the man kneels down. She hears the groan he tries to stifle, and goes to his side.

"Will you let me do that?" she asks, her voice boiling over with exasperation.

"You have Will, and the med-kit," Tom says, his tone quite reasonable in spite of the strain underlying it. "I can handle it."

"You keep this up and you'll be handling a punctured lung," she growls.

"Rose, it's fine," he breathes.

She wants to scream at him that it's not _fine_. None of this is _fine_. He's just had his entire life turned over on his head, and he's being entirely too calm and controlled about it. She herself feels ready to fly out of her skin, but the weight on her hip keeps her anchored, keeps her in "mommy mode."

"We'll have to get one for Will," Tom mutters, more to himself than her. He hands her a brownish-red leather holder, and she automatically opens it

Her own face stares up at her from a picture that had been cut from something business related. The name is not hers --

"Daisy?" she says, her nose scrunching. "You think I look like a Daisy?"

"Not when you make that face, you don't." Tom turns, gives her what can only be described as a lighthearted, albeit faint, grin, and finishes pocketing whatever else he was gathering from the depths. He grasps the heavy top of the safe to haul himself back on his feet, and his face is white when he finishes. "Come," he manages, his voice faint but not weak. She marvels at his discipline.

Rose passes by the couch, and on spur of the moment she grabs a cushion. Tom gives her a questioning look. "For Will," she says. "I assume we're taking a car, yes? And you hardly have a car seat stashed around here somewhere."

A shadow passes across Tom's face. But without hesitation he takes her hand again, and they make their way, much more quickly, although clearly it takes Tom a great effort, to the garage. The Jag is out -- most of Tom's fancy cars are out. None of them have back seats, being sports cars. But there is one sitting in the corner. Much more mundane. The keys, to their great relief, sit on top of one of the visors and slide down when Tom lowers it.

Rose extends her hand. "Tom, please--"

"No."

"You're injured! God knows what Hadley did to you -- you could be internally hemorrhaging, could lose consciousness, and then were the hell will we all be?"

"Put Will in the back. Maybe you should ride back there with him." She nearly stamps her foot at how cleanly he just ignores everything she said. So in spite of the urgency, she pauses long enough to give him a near-death glare.

Tom looks up at her, his eyes lingering over Will. "You need to stay with him, Rose," he says, a bit softer. "He needs you right now." The crease in Tom's brow deepens. "He's been too quiet."

Rose looks down at Will. His blue eyes do have a slightly glassy look, and he's sucking on his fingers, something he rarely ever did. Rose thinks about shock...the shooting, the violence. She has no idea what is going to happen to him but as long as he's with her, a primal part of her is satisfied, and keeps pushing back that worry, pushing back in the face of their immediate situation.

Rose puts Will in the back. She uses the cushion to boost him up -- somehow she manages to get the seatbelt around him to keep him from rolling off the seat -- with no car seat, it might work so long as no one looks too closely.

Before Tom gets into the driver's seat he starts to slide his suit coat off his shoulders. But with his injuries this is excruciatingly painful and Rose rushes around behind him to help. She slides the expensive and heavily damaged material from his broad frame, and when it clears his wrists, he turns to her, a look on his face that is totally out of place in this particular moment.

It's a tender look.

She thinks of what he said to Ben. She wishes he would say it to her, directly, but this isn't the time for that kind of discussion. Now that he's been exiled, presumed dead? What does this mean? Is he going to stay with them? Will he send her away again? She mentally shakes herself, warns herself not to become irrational. When all this adrenaline wears off she will be a shivering, sobbing lump, but that can't be now.

She realizes she's been staring at him. He has taken her injured hand in his and reached for the red kit she set on the seat in the back when tucking Will, but his wince makes her turn and reach for it.

"Put the coat on Will," Tom instructs her softly as he releases her hand. Rose takes a moment, tucks the heavy, satin-lined material around the boy, who sits with eyes wide open, watching his mother closely. She kisses his forehead and grabs the kit as she stands.

Tom takes the kit and opens it, pulling from it antiseptic wipes and a roll of gauze. He reaches out, patiently waiting for her to place her hand in his so he can tend to it. Gently, very gently, he wipes away the worst of the crusted blood.

The wound lies along the mound of her thumb, where she'd grabbed the knife. It was a stupid thing to do, but she can't bring herself to regret it. Or really even think about it, outside of observing how gingerly Tom treats her, as if afraid to bring her even the slightest pain.

A smile cracks the corner of her mouth. "You can press a little harder. It's pretty numb right now." Quite frankly, now that she has a chance to look at it, the whole thing is pretty gross. The blood has clotted into a thick, dark line, although the cut itself is rather precise, as the knife was incredibly sharp. When it scars it will make a very clean, white line that will stay with her for years to come. The worst part of it is that the blood has run everywhere, pooling in her palm, along her wrist, and practically coating her fingers. She will be scrubbing her hands for a while to get all the blood out from under her nails.

Tom tries to get as much as he can, but focuses on the skin around the cut most intensely. He bunches the used wipes into his palm, heedless of her blood staining his skin, drying her with the gauze in his other hand when he's satisfied. Then, he shoves the ointment packet into the corner of his mouth to tear it open and smoothes the oily substance across the gash, his fingers very light as he works, hardly touching her.

Rose watches him work. His face is set in concentration, but there are things shifting behind his eyes. She knows he has not yet had time to process everything, just as she hasn't. She wonders if, when it happens, he will let her comfort him. When his eyes dart up, he must see something in her face because his gaze lingers, his eyes briefly going to her mouth.

"You saved us," she whispers.

He meets her eyes. His mouth opens, but he doesn't speak. It's too much, in this moment. Then, he shakes it off, and says, "Not quite yet. Come, we have to go."

He slides the gauze over her wound and then uses the bandage roll to hold it in place. It sticks to itself, and Rose wiggles her fingers, realizing it does feel much, much better now. Then Tom goes to the cut on her collar, not as deep, and starts the process again. He doesn't have a bandage big enough to place over it, so he uses the gauze and a few pieces of first-aide adhesive tape to secure a covering.

"We have to get you looked at," she says, putting a bit of force in her voice.

"We have to get out of the country," Tom says, putting everything rather unceremoniously back into the bag and handing it to her. "You can sort that, can't you?"

Now it's her turn to ignore him. "Where? France?"

"It's closest."

She shakes her head. "We need some place to recuperate. Get clothes, deal with Will's passport. And I'm still barefoot, what the hell are the authorities going to say about that?" She pauses, thinking. "What about Andrew?"

"Andrew is in Ireland," Tom protests softly, glancing again at Will. The boy's huge eyes continue to stare at both of them, his fingers still in his mouth.

"And he has his own ferry," Rose points out. "No questions."

He wants to argue, she can see from his face, but he knows she is right. He gives in much faster than she anticipated. "Fine. We'll go to Andrew's."

She extends her hands one more time for the keys. "Tom, please. I'm worried about you."

Tom looks at her, and there is that smile again. The one from the study before, when he was teasing her. He bends down and kisses her forehead. "Worry about Will right now," he says, soft but firm. "I'll be immobile in the seat, it's all the walking that's hard. Please, get in the back. Let me do this, Rose."

She sighs, and gets into the back. Will finally pulls his fingers from his mouth when she sits down.

"'Ommy," he says.

She wraps her arm around him, and he snuggles into the corner of her arm, his head burrowed against her side. Tom settles himself into the driver's seat and they are moving forward.

Away. From everything he's ever known. For good.


	35. Ferry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

Compartmentalization is the only thing keeping Tom moving. Compartmentalization and the desire for distance. No one is following them. For now. Mark had seemed content to let them go yet throughout the night Tom finds himself continually checking the road behind them for a row of headlights from dark sedans hurtling towards them. Every few minutes his eyes drift from the road before them to the mirror to scan the road for pursuers.

He’s stuck in a loop. Road before and aft: just occupied by other late night travelers. He then turns his head slightly to look to Rose, she and William illuminated by moonlight. It takes a bit more effort than merely using the rearview mirror but he finds it provides more comfort to note her presence in his peripheral vision rather than using the reflection.

Rose is still focusing on William, lulling him to sleep with soothing words and gentle strokes plied to his blonde curls. The little boy that had been squealing and squirming in Ben’s arms now rests quietly bundled against his mother. Even with the backrub and sing-song tone Will shouldn’t be this quiet.

But that’s why they’re going to see Andrew.

Tom goes back to focusing on the road, doing his best to avoid any pockmarks in the mostly smooth pavement. He’s wedged himself into as secure a position in the seat as he can manage but every jostle of the vehicle makes him clench his jaw. The docks will be hell – but the less distance they have to cover on foot the better.

The next time he completes the little loop of observation he finds Rose silently crying. Her wrapped hand is trembling as she wipes away tears. Guilt stabs at him, even sharper in force than the protestations of his body. He brought this upon her, and upon William as well. All of this just because he couldn’t let go of the echoes of Rose within his head – because he couldn’t listen to the man who had raised him and focus on the job.

“Rose.”

He waits for her to indicate she hears him. They can’t pull over right now, there isn’t time for it. He cannot sit before her to comfort her in the way he wants. They need to get out of the country. He shifts his eyes between the road before them to the mirror, not speaking again until she is looking at him in return.

At the bottom edge of the mirror Will’s form is just peeking into view. Quietly, so he doesn’t undo the magic she’s woven in the backseat, Tom says the only thing that comes to mind. “He’ll be alright. Andrew will see to it.”

It is a comfort, perhaps, but it isn’t necessarily truth. Andrew will do what he can - but the mental battle will be something that will affect the family for years to come. Is it too much to wish that William will be spared the nightmares?  - To hope that he is still young enough that it will not scar his psyche? Tom is all too familiar with the after effects of such an experience.

“That’s not why – Hadley. Tom… Hadley saved me twice tonight.” Rose says as she shakes her head. “And we left him.”

Hadley. Who had been working for Ben… The desire to allow his mind to veer off course at the thought that his mentor was not the man he thought he knew is overwhelming. He’s been fighting against that line of thought these past few hours -

_Ben!_ Behind it all! How long had Hadley been in league with Ben – from the very start? How deep did the betrayal go? Nightly reports of the inner-workings of the household?

None of that. Once Rose and William are safe he can drown himself in doubts. Until then…

Tom frowns, glancing again from the road before them to the rearview mirror to see her expression. “Twice?”

“He took a call when we were still down in the tunnel. No,” she purses her lips while trying to explain to him, “that’s not right. He _placed_ a call. One minute he is pointing a gun at my head and I’m sure he’s going to pull the trigger and the next…”

Tom jerks the wheel of the car causing all three passengers to shift in their seats. “What?!” The outburst rouses William and makes Tom wince at the after effects voiced by his body.

She had been captured and brought back into the house - that much he had known. He’d held his own in the kitchen during which time he _thought_ she was being shepherded to freedom, only to find himself looking up the stairwell to find her being shoved out onto the landing. He’d half convinced himself that Hadley had merely led her back inside… _maybe_ resorting to threats, but at gunpoint? If Hadley wasn’t…

It hasn’t quite sunk in yet, though he can see it in his minds-eye well enough: His once trusted head-of-household’s sprawled form on the security room floor.

Hadley is no longer a concern.

Rose’s soft touch on his shoulder indicates that she’s leaning forward over Will to reach out and pull him back out of his head. “Tom. It is in the past. Please. Calm down and drive.”

“I am calm. But Rose,” he exhales shallowly, tilting his head to catch a glimpse of William’s blonde curls. Woken from the carefully constructed bubble of security established by Rose, his son is staring at the back of the seat and listening to his parent’s low conversation.

_Little pitchers have big ears._

Tom blinks at his mother’s soft words resounding in his head. It’s hard to remember the last time he heard any words of wisdom echo through his headspace that weren’t spoken by Ben. It is something that his mother used to say in reference to his siblings. Mentally and physically worn, the memory sends a chill through him. At least it isn’t followed quickly by visions of the last time he saw any of them.

“The past has been hounding us for days now…. Some of us longer.” Looking forward once more he almost doesn’t say the next thought, but if he starts censoring himself now he’ll never stop. “I’m afraid he’ll be haunted by images he cannot shake,” he admits softly.

Luck has not been on their side as of late.

They need a topic change. Rather than look to see Rose’s expression in response to his statement, or betray just how much his body is protesting the way he now sits in the driver’s seat – all because of his erratic driving – he grumbles out a request, “Are there wipes in that bag? Need to clean some of this blood off before a concerned citizen dials 999.”

While Rose is busy shifting through the contents of the medical bag he tries to find a less painful position to sit in. All he manages to do it make his headache worse via grinding his teeth together.

“Tom, you’re not fooling me.” He notes concern mixing with her cross expression as he accepts the proffered wipes.

He offers her a tight smile in the mirror. The rapidly evaporating alcohol is cool to his fingers. It won’t do much to battle the swelling or the spots where the blood has seeped into his clothing but it’s a start. “I’ll make it. We’re almost to the docks…” He amends his words after glancing at the dashboard of the car, “Though we should stop for petrol or we’ll risk coasting in on fumes. And call to alert Andrew. Courtesy. And a shorter wait time for the ferry.”

He doesn’t have time to set the car to idle before Rose has the back passenger door open. The rush of cool night air sends a shiver through him, followed quickly by a barely contained grimace. Rose fixes Tom in the driver’s seat with a stern look. “Don’t you dare even try… Stay there. What’s the number I need to call? Is it still the same?” Tom shakes his head, begrudgingly rattling off Andrew’s new contact number while Rose retrieves cash from his jacket in the seat beside her. In answer to Will’s sudden alertness Rose bends to kiss his forehead, pausing to tap the dome light on to illuminate the car. “I’ll be right back, Will. Daddy’s right here.”

Will watches his mother, a little meerkat upon a pillow, following her every movement with wide eyes the entire time she’s pumping gas and then visually follows her progress to the phone. While William fixedly watches his mother, Tom watches Will. The little boy has the edges of the salvaged sofa cushion from Tom’s study gripped so tightly his fists have gone white and his arms tremble intermittently. Somehow in the act of turning to follow her progress through the parking lot Will has wormed his way out of the security of the seatbelt. The magic of her presence is visibly seeping from his tiny frame.

The call complete, Rose hangs up the phone and pauses. Both occupants of the car stiffen when she turns, gives them a little wave, and walks from the illuminated patch of land next to the phone towards the little hole-in-the-wall shoppe. The moment she opens the door is the moment Will releases the cushion he is seated upon.

Tom knows the reaction intimately. Panic.

In answer Tom turns as much as he can in the seat. He doesn’t dare reach out to touch Will, settling with just murmuring words of what he hopes are comfort, “William. She’s… She’ll be right out. She’s coming right back, Will. I see her there. Right in the window, there.”

Tom has a better vantage point than Will. From this angle he can see Rose walking to the counter and talking with the woman standing at the register. After a brief exchange the woman nods to Rose and disappears beyond view of the window, leaving Rose alone at the counter. Rather than try to imagine the words to go along with the exchange Tom turns his attention back to Will.

Will’s trembling is worsening. He’s lost sight of his mother. Tom’s breath catches as he reaches out to point out where Rose is standing off to the left in the store window. “Just… there. I see your mother. See Mommy? Right there? Stand up, Will. She’s right there.” 

As Will stands Tom watches the boy shudder and scrunch up his face, in preparation to wail. But then he sees Rose and all that escapes is a quiet whimper. “’Ommy.”

“Yes, Will. Mommy. She’s… getting…”

White paper packages are exchanged for a small sum. Food. She’s getting food – whatever is available so late in the night. Perhaps if his body wasn’t so busy trying to internally hemorrhage he might have realized that it is well past time for a meal.

And shoes. In addition to the wrapped food the woman hands Rose a pair of well-loved white slip-on shoes. Tom knits his brows together briefly. He’d forgotten having to cut her shoes from her feet as they fled through the house. She’s been barefoot ever since. She pauses just after exiting the building to drop the shoes to the ground and slide her feet into them. He should have let her retrieve a pair of shoes from her room before they left…

Will settles back onto the cushion as Rose approaches the car again. There is a slight stutter to her steps when she notes how both Tom and Will are seated differently than when she left them. As Rose opens the car door he shakes his head and starts to offer up the answer before her question can be fully voiced. “We lost sight of you for a moment, but we found you again. Didn’t we, Will?”

Will doesn’t fully turn to look to the front seat. He is caught mid-motion by the smell quickly filling the dimly illuminated car. Fish and chips. Slowly he tilts his head up and sucks in his bottom lip, sniffing the air in short huffs. Now that Rose is back in close proximity and bearing such gifts Will almost seems animated – perhaps closer to normal behavior, Tom muses. The little boy is keeping a close eye on the white paper packages as Rose sets them in the seat beside him.

“I got you some fries, Monkey, but you need to eat one fish finger first.”

Tom can feel Rose watching him as she tends to setting up dinner for Will. He closes his eyes to listen to the pair of them - the rustling of paper - shuffling of fabric and shifting of bodies. He’ll need to turn around again at some point, but the pain of turning about again will be much sharper than he felt in getting into the position. Before, his attention had been on Will and providing what comfort he could.

“Ommy, fries first.”

“One fish finger. Then fries.” And then softly, under her breath, “Tom?”

He flutters his eyes open. Both passengers in the backseat have stopped and are watching him, one set of brown eyes, one set blue. She’d gotten enough for all three of them. He shakes his head. “Not hungry quite yet. I’ll eat once we’re to the dock. Just… give me a minute.”

For the last stretch of the drive Tom can feel Rose’s eyes on the back of his neck during the moments when he doesn’t confirm the act via the rearview mirror. Sometimes he does catch her splitting her focus, ensuring Will does make progress with his food while she does no more than pick at her own. More often than not he finds his attention returned.

“Tom, please eat something.”

He quirks one eyebrow at her in the mirror. “Alright. Hand me a chip.”

She almost smiles, glancing sideways at Will who is happily munching away at the small setting of food before him. “Like father like son,” she says quietly, offering a fish finger instead. “One fish finger. Then fries.”

It’s doubtful if a single bite of food has ever tasted so good. All the activity of the past day, that’s the reason for it. Every so often her hand reappears, another piece of food to consume. Rose seems satisfied by his acceptance of nourishment – the itching at the back of his neck dissipates, at any rate. For a brief time that’s the only activity taking place in the car.

Finally Rose breaks the silence. “I don’t understand why he did it.”

Which _he_?

“Why did Hadley… I don’t understand. He betrayed us…” Her reflection is frowning. She’s abandoned her food once more, her injured hand tucked into her lap and the other resting lightly on the back of Will’s neck.

Hadley had threatened her at gunpoint but something had occurred to make him place a call rather than end Rose’s life. Something during their passage must have made Hadley have a change of heart. Or perhaps…

It wasn’t just actions today that needed to be considered but everything as a whole. Hadley had always ensured that the tastes of the lady of the house were met. He’d always had a car “more to her tastes” ready and waiting while she was home. Always made sure to greet her upon her arrival to the Hiddleston Estate. There was also Hadley’s curious behavior in the days after her semi-permanent departure. Even in his erratic state of mind Tom had noticed – though he hadn’t connected the reason as to _why_ until now.

Perhaps there had been two men on the Hiddleston Estate unable to shake Rose from their memory.

He clears his throat. It’s a hard thing to admit – another man in love with his Rose, but it is the truth. “He betrayed me, Rose. He cared for you – about you.”

And he can’t even console himself with the thought that the better man won her heart.

She is quiet for the rest of the ride.

The arrive at the designated dock just as the sun is starting to change the color of the sky from the deep colors now slowly appearing on Tom’s skin to lighter purples and peeking rays of red. There’s a covering of fog over the water that Tom can only hope will burn off with the rising sun.

Unloading the family from the car is a painfully slow process. Tom can’t suppress the groan as he pulls himself out of the vehicle. His body has grown stiff. He’d like a hot soak in the master bath and to lay in his bed for a week – but that is an impossibility. They’re going to keep moving until William and Rose are safe, and then? Then they’ll see what happens next.

The only thing Rose lets him carry from the car is his jacket. Tom shifts documentation and their passports from his jacket to join the other salvaged items from the safe in his pants pockets. Meanwhile Rose settles the red medical bag over her shoulder again and scoops William up to nestle into his spot on her hip.

It’s a cool breeze that whips off the choppy waters vaguely visible before them. The chill in the air licks at the loose edges of their clothing to find exposed skin and sink into their bodies. The entire family is dressed for activities meant indoors. Tom glances at Rose and William, the way the light breeze off the water ripples through their respective curls. There hopefully are blankets onboard to wrap around them and keep them safe from the threat of chill.  He struggles merely getting one arm into the sleeve of his jacket. In answer to Rose’s frown he tilts his head towards their ride, “Let’s look as put together as possible.”

Considering the condition of the family – Rose’s slightly too large shoes clearly obtained as an afterthought, her overall mussed appearance, Will’s wide eyed stare, and Tom’s discolored features coupled with his blood splattered clothing – insisting on wearing the jacket is akin to trying to reattach shorn wool to a sheep.

The ferry is ready and waiting for them. The captain and scant crew give the trio a slow onceover as they approach. It is assured safe passage to Andrew – a neutral doctor willing to work on any and all. No one would dare take advantage of the situation, Andrew pays all involved handsomely for their services to ensure that his reputation stays intact.

Still the reception makes Tom twitchy.

The captain gives Tom a short nod and holds out his hand, the silent gesture that of welcome and invitation to board. There’s no need to stop and haggle on the docks though Tom offers up a few folded pieces of paper as he passes the captain to board the vessel. A little bonus can’t hurt to ensure the trip goes smoothly.

“We’ll be leaving shortly. Need to wait for the fog to lift. Cook set out breakfast, and blankets.” The captain’s eyes linger on Rose and William, drift to the bag slung over Rose’s shoulder, and then come back to Tom. “The Doc will be waiting when we arrive.”

It’s as close to curbside service as Andrew ever got, coming out to meet the incoming patients. The good doctor never left the shores of his homeland. Tom glances at Rose. She must have conveyed Tom’s condition while on the phone.

After boarding Rose sets William down, the little boy keeping to her side and clinging to the fabric of her dress with one hand. He appears enthralled by the boat itself, looking from one thing to the next with wonder. It’s a small, much needed comfort that helps loosen the tension between Tom’s shoulder blades. Perhaps they can distract Will from the horror of recent events by appealing to his sense of adventure. Little boys love adventures.

The engines seem to refuse to increase their hum, further proof of delays to their departure. Though he has an overwhelming urge to go to the little aforementioned room in the hopes of refuge from the damp, cold environment, and perhaps a moments rest – but Rose and William seem interested in lingering on deck.

Tom steadies himself on the doorframe to watch William move with ease over the slick deck, sliding from point of interest to point of interest – indicating details to his mother in the secret, intimate language developed between the pair of them. Snippets of Rose’s responses reach his ears – “Yes, Monkey.” – “Oooh.” – “I see it.” – though some of the conversation is lost to the drone of the idling engines.

He takes this time of stasis to examine their means of transport. The vessel is not exactly clean, yet not quite what one would consider dirty, either. Still, it serves its purpose. He’s caught wondering how many others have stowed away aboard with this crew when the boat lurches away from the docks. Though anchored to the wall the sudden movement causes him to fall off balance. In his condition he hasn’t the ability to forestall what happens next. The impact of the wall of the inner cabin behind him nearly makes him fall to his knees.

William and Rose stumble with the sudden movement as well, the force causing Will to fall backward onto his rear. He giggles – _giggles! Their boy may just come out of this unscathed, yet! –_ considering it a game and Rose tinkles out a laugh of her own as she helps their son back to his feet. If only Tom could laugh along with them. He doesn’t dare move – no, that’s not even it – he can’t, can’t move to right himself once more.

“’Ommy!” Will’s cry brings Tom back from the brink of giving in and sinking to the deck in a heap. Had William hurt himself when he fell?

No. His son is pointing past Rose, directly at him.

Rose is by his side in an instant. “Tom! Tom, please let me look at you.”

She gently pushes to help him to stand fully once more. His stomach is demanding to release all of the meager meal they’d consumed an hour prior in the car. As she slips her hand up under his jacket he tries to fend her off, “Leave my jacket be. It’s cold out here on the water. I need the layers.”

Bickering with her helps to keep his mind from fully processing the signals sent by his body. He closes his eyes, silently urging her to continue. _Keep talking. Keep arguing the point with me._

“You’re making excuses. Come on. Monkey? Daddy needs to rest. Let’s go inside now.”

_Daddy._ _Draw strength from that feeling._

“I’m fine. Let him explore.”

But Rose refuses to be dissuaded. She nestles herself under his arm to support his weight and lead him from the deck into the small chamber that must serve as the passenger and crew quarters. She leads him inside as gently as she can with Will reluctantly trailing along behind them. They bypass the table set with sealed containers – most likely the breakfast the captain referred to – in favor of reaching the cot by the port window.

As she’s helping Tom to sit Will climbs up onto the cot, over Tom’s legs, and squeezes behind Tom’s back to press his face against the window itself. “Will! Get down.” Rose purses her lips, still holding onto Tom.

“Leave him, Rose.”

“Tom….”

Tom smiles and lifts his hand to hesitate before touching Will’s back, holding the little boy in place briefly before lowering his hand into his lap once more. “He’s alright, just where he is. Let him watch the fog.”


	36. Damage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rose]

Rose cannot stop thinking about Hadley.

His face is in her mind, as clear as if staring back at her from a mirror. Hadley greeting her when she comes home in the evenings. Hadley in her room, comforting her after Tom's horrible outburst upon finding out about Will. Hadley nodding at her as she escapes from the estate to make her life elsewhere. Hadley pointing a gun at her, ready to pull the trigger, but something in his face...

Hadley as he ran toward her, as he was shot, taking a bullet meant for her.

His face accuses her with its mere presence. Not because of what he'd sacrificed, because he had betrayed her, Tom, all of them...but because they'd just left him there.

Like a discarded weapon. Abandoned.

She cannot shake it off. It makes her shiver, even with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

Tears had come in the car, but Tom had quickly distracted her. Now, sitting in the ferry as it lurches in its long rises and falls in the passage between England and Ireland, nothing to do but watch as her son watches the fog, and Tom watches him, her mind drifts back to Hadley again.

 _He cared about you._ Tom's exact words. How much had it hurt to say those words? Hadley was the reason Tom was in so much pain right now...

Well, physically. But whatever other pain Tom was in, he was determined to shove it aside. That was Tom, always pushing things aside until he could deal with them, if ever. That was what drove them apart.

Until now.

Gently, Rose slides her arm around Tom's. In the gap between his arm and his body, she lines hers up against his. Her elbow gently wedges along his waist, filling the space against the wall, support if the boat should sway him back. Her hand covers his, where it sits palm down, gripping the seat. She weaves her fingers into the space between his, sliding her more stubby digits against his long, slender ones.

Tom looks down, and then up at her. There is tenderness in his face, even as the muscles are pulled tight with residual pain. That same look was on his face when he'd been taking things from the safe in the study, when he was cleaning her hand and collar.

He gave it up for her. For her and Will.

He stood right there, and said it to Ben's face.

She wants to hold him tightly but doesn't dare. Instead, she smiles at him, not a wide smile, but one full of meaning. She presses her cheek and lips into his shoulder, not hard enough to move him, but enough so that he can feel her, even though the expensive but ruined material of his suit coat.

She feels his lips brush against her forehead, as much of it as he can reach. "It will be all right, Rose," he says softly. "I promise."

He has been as good as gold when it comes to his promises. He had promised to find Will, to return him to her, and here is her boy, watching out the window as the fog starts to lift and the boat starts to move. Returned as promised. He sways a little with the rocking motion, but Tom is surprisingly quick to lift his arm to steady his son.

She wishes she could talk to him. She started, before, about Hadley, but upon seeing his reaction to learning how his former head of house had threatened her at gunpoint, she doesn't want to upset him. At least not in his current state. Tom is tired -- she can see it in the lines of his face, the paleness of his skin.

No, Hadley is a secondary subject compared to the one that rushes to her lips. "Tom, what will happen after we get to...wherever we're going?"

He frowns at her. "What do you mean?"

She tries to choose her words carefully, but is also too exhausted for the effort. "Are you...are you going to stay with us?" She can't help the hope that floods her -- to think that less than forty-eight hours ago, a life with him was the last thing she wanted! How terrified she'd been of him! How afraid of her own feelings! But now, knowing what she meant to him, what Will meant...now she isn't afraid anymore. "Are you going to stay and make a life with us, with me and Will? Is our son going to get to know his father? Or are you...are you going to leave us, and deal with what you've left behind. Deal with...the people who've taken from you what's yours."

She looks down at their hands as she finishes. Now that she's said it, it almost sounds ridiculous. Especially considering...

_“Way I see it, you’ll be needing the luck,_ _mate_ _. It doesn’t end here.”_

_“It does, if you tell them I’m dead.”_

Tom being dead to this world means being alive in hers. Hadn't he made that clear?

"I...I ask because I've learned never to assume anything with you," Rose says. "I know what I saw, what I heard. But you need to tell me, in no uncertain terms."

Tom doesn't answer. He stares at her, lips twitching slightly.

She squeezes his hand, pressing her fingers into his. "You don't have to tell me now. I know this isn't the right place. But I want you to know, Tom. If you want me, if you want Will, we are here. I know Ben was your...he was your family." Her voice catches, but Tom's eyes don't flicker. "But we are your family too, Tom. And you can trust me. You can rely on me. I won't leave you again, if you..." She sucks in a breath, realizing her words are getting rushed, tangled. "But if you change your mind, and you go the way of revenge." She shakes her head. She lifts her hand, but then suddenly Tom flips his over and catches hers.

Rose feels her heartbeat accelerate. Something as simple as hand holding is nothing compared to the intimacy they've shared -- Will's existence being a key result -- but now it feels like the most important, most dear caress she's ever felt from him.

Tom lifts her hand to his mouth, and he kisses it.

"Tea?"

The voice breaks through the quiet moment, and they look up to see one of the deckhands standing in the doorway, holding a tray with old, chipped cups and a metal kettle. Rose nods, and the man puts it down on their table. "Food too," the man says, motioning to the sealed containers that also sit on the table -- containers that have gone untouched, as of yet. "Nothin' fancy, but should do ya fer a bit." He nods, turns and leaves them alone again.

Then both of them turn to see that Will has stopped his gazing out the window and is staring at the two of them, and frowning at their joined hands. Then, with the kind of bull-headed determination that only comes from an eighteen month old boy, he charges toward his mother, stepping over his father without ceremony. Tom lets out a grunt as Rose catches Will, but she does not let go of Tom's hand.

Will burrows against his mother, wedging himself firmly between his parents -- one he knows well, the other not at all -- as if to declare territory. Rose looks up at Tom in apology, and even though Tom has paled a bit more in pain, there is a faint smile on his lips.

"Can't say I blame him too much," Tom wheezes. "I know I can get possessive of his mother, too."

"'Ommy, food!" Will barks, pulling his head back to look up at his mother.

Rose frowns at her son. "Now, Will, there isn't any need to --"

"I'm rather hungry myself," Tom interrupts, giving Rose a very light wink. "What kind of fare are they serving, I wonder?"

Breakfast is simple, and sturdy. Boiled eggs, sausage patties, some potato cakes, toast with butter, little packets of jam, and oatmeal. There is honey for the tea, and Rose squirts it over the oatmeal, the way Will likes it. She pours the tea, because Tom cannot even lift the kettle at this point, and fills their plates, and they journey a while in silence.

Andrew's house, shack, practice, whatever it's to be called, appears to be made from the lighthouse she noticed from the ferry, that Will had pointed to as he jumped up and down with enthusiasm. The beacon still flashes out over the waters, capturing the boy's attention as they walk. The old stone has grown moss, making Rose wonder about the conditions inside the house. It's very close to the water, where the coast veers sharply down and the cliff face starts to show. It will be a walk, but not nearly as far as she worried. If they'd had some small kind of shuttle, she might not have let Tom take it, because of the bumps and rocks that could have jostled him. As it is, Tom is barely hanging on, even though he trudges forward with purpose.

When the ferry docks, Rose makes Will walk, even though he very much wants his mother to carry him, and Tom even tries to make her stop and lift up the boy who keeps insisting, but she determinedly pushes them both forward toward their goal. She talks to Will as they go, pointing out to him the shoreline, the birds, the crashing waves. The sun is up, it has to be around 9, but the fog drags here and there, turning the world a bright gray with patches of color. This manages to distract him, until they see the man himself.

Andrew stands out on the lawn, which is more mud than grass, in a bright yellow rain slicker. He meets them pretty much at the threshold of his private property, and Rose gets her first glimpse of the elusive doctor.

She's never met him, but has known of his existence pretty much since the beginning of her time with Tom. He is...strange. Not as tall as Tom, but taller than her, and lean, willowy, with dark hair and dark eyes that are very round and a touch too close together.  His mouth twitches randomly as he looks over all three of them.

"Well, she said you were a wreck," Andrew begins, in a low, slow Dublin accent that sounds off to Rose's ears, and she's known more Irishmen than she has fingers. "She wasn't kiddin', was she? Into my parlor, then."

Andrew hums lightly to himself as he walks with them, his eyes scanning over Tom as he walks up the concrete path to the main entrance.

"Look at the boy first, Andrew," Tom insists when they all get inside. It is pristine inside. As if professionals kept it clean, even out here in this isolated world. Rose can't even smell the moss inside, even though it had turned the stone deep green.   

Andrew gives an absent nod. His eyes catch on Rose as she lowers the damp blanket she'd kept from the boat, at Tom's insistence. "Didn't have ta dress up fer me, lass," he says. She looks down at herself, at the ruins of the dress she'd put on for Mark, at the little glittering pieces that still twinkle in the watery light. In the damp, it clung closer to her skin than before. Andrew reaches out, takes the blanket as well as an appreciative glance at her figure, and lumps it together with his wet slicker as he hangs them on a large coat rack by the entrance.

"So the boy first," Andrew sing songs in his nearly hypnotic voice. He looks down at Will and smiles, and to Rose's surprise, Will shyly smiles back. Andrew extends a hand, and Will takes it.

"This way, then," Andrew hums, and Rose nervously looks over as Tom shuts his eyes, seeming to gather himself.

"He should look at you first," she hisses at him, nearly angry with how stubborn Tom is being.

Tom opens his eyes and just gives a little shake of his head. He tries to step forward but she knows he is nearly done. She grasps his arm and hears the groan he tries to stifle as he takes those last desperate steps toward the examination table that sits just inside the archway to Andrew's main practice.

"Hey there pal," Andrew says, crouching down to Will's level. He has slipped on surgical gloves, black in color, and reaches up toward Will's face. His thumbs gently push down the skin below Will's eyes, and then up on the eyelids. Andrew flashes a light into his pupils, flicking it, everything that one would expect a doctor to do. Then he lightly, carefully runs his black-gloved hands over Will's small figure, eliciting a giggle from the boy.

"Ticklish, right?" Andrew teases. He lifts the boy's face up by the chin, checks his mouth, his ears. Then he turns to the parents with a smirk on his face, and asks, "Just like his daddy?" His expression is not at all clinical as he glances over Tom.

Rose's eyebrow goes up. She glances at Tom, amused in spite of herself. _Really, Tom?_ her expression clearly says.

"Andrew," Tom growls.

Andrew just chuckles, showing teeth. He isn't afraid of Tom, apparently. "The boy is fine. Looks like a mild case of shock. He seems to be coming through it on his own. Depends on what shocked him, though." Andrew tucks the light into his breast pocket, walks toward Tom who is leaning back on the exam table, pale, sweating, and starting to pant. Then he laces his fingers together as they hang in front of him and cocks one eyebrow before that lazy sing song voice continues. "So what was it?"

Rose looks at Tom. She isn't sure what to say, but quite frankly, it doesn't matter what you tell Andrew, it never leaves the room. This, she knows. "Not sure where to start," she begins.

Andrew's eyes are now serious, the flirtation momentarily vanished. "Well, if he saw someone murdered, beaten, whatever sort of business your boyfriend had to deal with, I can guarantee you there will be nightmares. Anything else?"

"He was kidnapped," Rose offers.

"Abandonment issues," Andrew says casually. He snaps at the gloves against his wrists. "Expect him to be overly clingy. When he gets old enough to talk about it, you'd better let him talk about it, and if you can, explain what happened. Confusion will just make things worse."

Rose feels tears start to burn at the back of her eyes. Right now, though, Will is standing with his fingers in his mouth, looking around the room at the strange equipment, and at Andrew, who winks down at the boy.

"He your kid, Tom?" Andrew asks.

"Yes," comes the answer.

"Want to live to see him grow up?" Those dark eyes turn bright as he fixes them on Tom. It sounds like a threat to Rose's ears, but only upon first hearing. Then, Andrew crosses to a small table and pulls up a syringe, filling it with something from a sealed bottle. "Then let's put aside the bullshit and get you fixed up b'fore a rib goes into your lung and you're fucked."

"Rose next," Tom tries to insist.

"Stop it, Tom," Rose nearly shouts.

"Pal, you are about two minutes from passing out," Andrew says, coming over to stand in front of Tom. His head wiggles as he talks, his delivery sing-song. "It's those ribs. One of them pressing into a lung, which is why you can't breathe."

"Rose. Next," Tom tries again.

"What circumstance brought you to my door, I don't know. It's a journey, and in your condition." He puffs his cheeks, blowing out air which ends in a low whistle. "But pal, if you wanna live to see your boy become a damaged man like his papa, you'll let me dope you and get to work on those ribs."

"No...dope..." Tom pants.

Rose just sighs. She extends her hand to Andrew. "Tell me where to stick it," she says.

Tom tries to say her name but he can't seem to unhinge his jaw. It's too much.

"First let's get him into a better spot," Andrew says, glancing around. A dentist's chair sits in the corner. "That should work. Will support him in the right places."

The two of them half-drag Tom to the chair. Tom grits his teeth against the sounds that try to escape him because of the pain, but he really has no choice, no fight left in him. The thought fills Rose with a terrible unease -- Andrew could do what he damn well wanted at this minute, she realizes.

"You still want to stick him?" Andrew says. "Fastest way is in an artery."

"Which one?"

"Thigh would probably be best," Andrew says. "You squeamish about me pulling down your man's trousers?"

Rose undoes Tom's belt and gently manages to get his pants down without making Tom move more than an inch or two. Tom doesn't even protest. He's got nothing left, not even the energy to voice objections. Andrew finds the artery he's looking for and sticks him, and in a few minutes, Tom's breathing slows to a normal rate, and his jaw starts to unclench.

"Did a number, didn't they." Andrew muses as he disposes of the needle.

"They did," Rose whispers.

"Why?" Andrew asks, point blank, looking at her.

"The short version," Rose says, "is me."

"You?" Andrew's eyebrow rises again. His look this time is a bit more appreciative. "And the long version?"

"Is long," she replies.

"I can listen while I work," Andrew says, stepping forward. "Should have gotten these clothes off him before we got him in the chair. But I've got some extras he can have. You too." He reaches for a pair of scissors and starts to cut away the suit coat and shirt. "Shame... probably Armani."

Rose rubs her bare arms, suddenly feeling cold.

"I've got sweaters in that drawer in the next room," Andrew says absently as he clips away. "And maybe something for your kid. You guys ate on the boat, yeah?"

Rose turns, surprised that her brain was so focused on Tom that she had lost track of Will. But Will watches with fascination as the clothes Tom was wearing are reduced to bits and tossed aside. As if he were getting a haircut. She picks up her son, goes into the next room, and finds the dresser containing the drawer Andrew indicated. The clothes are old and rough, but serviceable. There is little for a boy to use, especially one as young as Will, but fortunately Will's clothes are nowhere near as damaged as hers or Tom's. She switches his top for a T-shirt that skirts his ankles, but he seems to like the dark green and smiles at her after she pulls it over his head. The green brings out his eyes.

His father's eyes.

For herself, Rose finds a jumper and a pair of jeans that just barely fit her, a bit too snug. She doesn't realize how horrible it was being in that wrecked fancy dress until she feels something actually comfortable against her skin. When she returns to the main room, Will in tow, Tom is down to his underwear, the dark bruising around his chest vivid against his near-white skin.

Andrew drags his eyes up to Rose. His lips twitch into a smirk. Now that Tom is in his underwear, his gifts are plain for the world to see. Or at least the people in this room. "Surprising you don't have a whole brood followin' you around," he quips.

Rose can't help a bit of a prideful smirk in return.

"Whoever worked him over," Andrew ponders, "just wanted to hurt him but not kill him. Painful, but he should recover quick, if allowed to heal properly. Bruising on his kidneys. Probably a laceration to the liver. He took a pounding, but he'll live."

Rose lets out a breath. The relief that floods her is beyond words.

"I'll wrap him up. If I dope him hard and keep him immobile overnight, it'll give his muscles the chance to relax. Got something to fill him with to speed things along. Keep the three of you moving." He looks over his shoulder at the empty room, then to her. "Usually have a backup set of hands, or two but...want to help?"

That strange Dublin accent -- makes his short u's all long. It takes her a second to register his words, and then Rose looks at Will, torn.

"Some old toys he can play with," Andrew offers, "wooden junk left by the previous owner." Andrew's eyes roll up toward the ceiling, thoughtfully. "Might keep him occupied. And you can tell me this long story." The eyes roll back to her. "Sound like a plan?"

Rose agrees. She goes to pick up Tom's trousers that are sitting on the floor. Something other than the belt hanging loosely from the loops is lending weight to the yards of fabric. There is something hard in one of the pockets --

"He's got a bunch of stuff in his jacket, here," Andrew says, giving it all a cursory glance. "Passports, money, I think you want this stuff, yeah?"

Rose nods, tense, and sets the trousers aside. Tom might want the belt later, if his new clothes fit him as ill as hers do.


	37. Pursued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

Tom feels constricted. He’s vaguely aware that there’s areason for it but his brain can’t seem to focus enough to pull the thought outinto the open. It’s as though the thought sits just on the other side of a door, a wall, some sort of barrier that serves to block access. He can hear it knocking at the walls – taunting him – or is that his own attempts at testing the barrier for weaknesses? 

Hard to tell. 

Moments of empty sleep are blurred by fragments of thought. Something needing to be done, but the moment the thought occurs it melts away again and is gone with another pushing into its place. Then nothing. It had been mostly nothing at first, but gradually other things are fighting their way forward.

The nothing might’ve been preferable to the rest.

The first thing that really locks into place is _pain_. 

Pain. All over. Pain.

With it comes the image of a lighthouse. A lighthouse peeking out at him through the darkness in his mind. It means something, that lighthouse, but his mind is dragging him elsewhere. He is forced to watch the image of the lighthouse fade from view, something else coming up from the depths for him to examine – unidentifiable at first – then a form starts to take shape – then a face to the form.

The _reason_ for the pain. 

Hadley. And with that acknowledgement comes flashes of blows dealt. This time though, within his mind there are strings extending from Hadley’s limbs. Strings that trail through the darkness as the room vanishes. Strings that lead to the last thing he wants to think about right now. 

Ben. 

Ben’s unflinching look, a twitch of a smile, and then a hard yank on one of the silver strands. 

It was all because Tom was trying to stand in the way of something Ben wanted. Because Tom, for all his blind obedience, had found something that set him at odds with his mentor. 

An echo of Rose’s voice comes softly at his shoulder, so close it makes him jump. Whispers of his name. Whispers of their love, of their son. Things spoken to the man she loves. 

Ben’s growl of disapproval drowns out Rose’s words. 

Rose isn’t there when Tom turns his head to try to spot her. His movements feel delayed, sluggish. All he sees are the thin silver-white strings crossing through the pitch before his eyes. 

He feels another sharp jab before being swallowed by the darkness again. 

The rattling noise returns. Knocking. Rapping. It breaks through in waves; a quiet taunt reminding him something _else_ is there in his head. Tom tries again to remember the lighthouse and what it means. The lighthouse isn’t just to battle this darkness, nothing as abstract as that. No it is a real place, a destination. Andrew’s. That is why his mind is clouded in a fog. Andrew drugged him against the pain inflicted by Ben’s pull of the strings. Drugs that must be wearing off. 

_Pain._

He wakes in a haze, the room titled at an odd angle as he forces his brain to process his surroundings. The sporadic clack and rattle has followed him from his dreams into this near waking state. They don’t lessen as time passes. He twitches, keeping his eyes closed to try to convince himself the creeping feeling of being watched is all in his head, or the product of the drug induced dreams – if he can classify them as such rather than nightmares.

It takes him longer than he’ll ever admit to find a way to turn his head and not see stars. Every little movement echoes through his body. The pain registered by his slow-on-the-uptake brain stills all but necessary movements. Even breathing threatens to break him. 

It would be highly convenient if Andrew would reappear. Dull the pain back to a faint irritation. Let him slip back into the nothingness and hope the feeling of being watched doesn’t follow.

The clacking noises pull at his curiosity, distracting from his body for a short time. He tests just how much he can observe of the room without forcing too much motion – finally finding the source after a few minutes of determination. 

William. Playing just at the edge of a floor rug, something old and nearly threadbare in certain well-traveled paths. The odd clatter is the result of a well-worn set of carved toys being dragged – with a single mindedness of purpose only a two year old can muster – across the portion of stone floor not covered by the aging carpet. 

Will has been changed into something different, something warmer – a dark green shirt that practically engulfs his tiny body. It takes Tom a second to spot Rose, for his attention to drift from the spot where his son plays to move to examine the sofa pushed into the corner of the room. He finds Rose sleeping, nestled into the cushions. A different color of fabric covers her shoulders, peeking out from under the blanket tucked around her form, but he can’t focus enough to note the color. Exhaustion, the comfort of the proximity of Rose and Will, the stone walls now harboring the three of them, the drugs coursing through his system – he can’t resist long and is pulled from reality once more. 

More white strands glitter, illuminated from an unknown source, as they crisscross in the darkness of his dreams. It doesn’t matter which way he turns, they’re always blocking his path. He ends up stumbling into them as he struggles to find a path. They snag him as though they move of their own accord, reaching out and wrapping around his limbs in order to pull him in the direction of their choosing. One wraps around his wrist and pulls with a mighty tug and with it another voice echoes in the darkness within his head, this one accusatory and no-where near a whisper. 

_Tom! What did you do this time, boy?!_

The voice is his father’s and associated with a memory he’s already been forced to visit in the past day. He jerks away, trying to lean back to pull against the cord that has him snared. Before his brief moment of waking he’d been able stumble freely through the darkness with just the feeling of compression keeping him uncomfortable. Now, in addition to that odd feeling, the sharp jabs of pain he had been suffering through during their trip bleed into this dream world. 

Hard to keep a level head against the visions when you can’t catch your breath. 

The drugs should be helping, but all they are doing is keeping him sluggish – helping the nightmares. This is why he didn’t want to be doped. 

Tom finally pulls himself free though the twisting motion required is almost more torturous than revisiting a painful memory. He stumbles away from the strand that had held him, away from the nightmare of his past into an _almost_ recognizable hallway. 

The walls are familiar enough, close enough to be those in the Crime Lord Estate… if you ignore the shining silver strands running along the length of the walls. The floors, though, are covered in a muck that calls to mind a bog. It doesn’t smell as it would in reality – but this is a dream, a drug induced dream. Tom makes a mental note try to remember to file a complaint with Andrew once he has a firm grip on reality once more.

He can feel himself start to sink into the muck, his movements to fight it causing the mud to creep up to further sully the shine of his dress shoes. The more he shifts the more his body reminds him of reasons _not to do that_. 

The weight of a cord wrapping around his wrist is there once more and he readies himself for the pull, the voices, but none come. Surprised, he turns to find Rose. She is standing there in the muck beside him, still in her ruined party dress, and with Will perched on her hip. 

“Rose?” He asks, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. She’s not here. Not really. She’s asleep on the sofa. She is resting peacefully in the protection offered by Andrew, in the far corner of the room. The quiet, cozy corner – the part not made of stainless steel and stone or smelling of disinfectant. 

“You’re not here.” He tells her, as though voicing it will make it so and leave him to battle the dreams alone. She gives his arm an encouraging squeeze and nods to him, the ruined party dress melting into one of her favorite outfits – something comfortable and easy to move about in – though not warm. Certainly not appropriate for wandering through a bog.

He tries again. “You’re not here. Neither of you…” He half expects them to vanish before his eyes but they don’t. 

It’s the lack of conviction in his voice. It’s the drugs… and her steady grip on his arm that feels a little too real to discount on a whim. His shoes squelch as he turns and he feels himself sink another inch into the muck. His eyes drift from examining his own predicament to hers. She is barefoot, he assumes, since he can’t see the white edge of the slip-on shoes peeking out of the muck. The mud has almost sucked her feet under and all she is doing is standing there. 

It is a dream. Even in this warped version of memory, or conjuring, this is taking place in his head. He can manipulate events here. Despite the drugs. He tries once more to point out the obvious, “You’re not here. William is playing. You’re asleep.” 

He pushes more emphasis, more belief, into his words. The clatter of the wooden toys being dragged across the floor echoes in support of the statement. It _is_ the clatter of toys. It _is_ William playing.

The noise doesn’t stop. If it is the thread of reality trying to lure him back he’ll focus on that once he’s able – once Rose and William are safe. He shifts from side to side to try to pull his feet back up to the surface but the movement doesn’t do as much good as he’d like. Rose hasn’t even tried to shift once. The stuff is nearly up to her ankles, now. 

“Rose. _Move_.” She still has a firm grip on his wrist so he jerks his arm to pull her into motion. She doesn’t budge. He leans, the motion sending him back into a few waiting strands of silver. He rights himself before they catch at him, but not before he hears Ben’s words of wisdom offered to a young, malleable boy. 

_They can only hurt you if you let them. If it wounds you, don’t let them see it. If you can, turn it back upon them. Show **them** something to fear._

He does his best to ignore his mentor’s words. He focuses instead of the pressure of Rose’s fingers digging into his skin. “Rose. _Come on_.” __

If she won’t leave the way she appeared he needs to lead her to an exit. This is _his_ torment. She does not belong here. William does not belong here. That was why she left.

So why won’t she leave now?

The hallway behind her extends beyond sight with passages leading off to the side at odd intervals. The clatter of Will’s toys has turned, in these few moments, into a scratching. Rather than an echo coming from within his head it seems to be coming from the hallway behind her, and growing louder. Whatever it is, it is coming for them.

He’s trying to focus on too many things. It’s impossible, in his state, to keep up this balancing act. When he looks back at the pair, William is reaching out towards the wall, his fingertips nearly touching one of the silver strands. 

“No!” He doesn’t know what would happen if Will were to touch it but something tells Tom nothing pretty would result. Thankfully the shouted command stall’s the little boy’s reach. Tom pries Rose’s fingers from his wrist to grip her hand in his own. Rose, his Rose, would have jumped at his bark at their son. She would be livid, shouting until his ears bled. Her maintained silence is unnerving. 

He starts to pull her along through the hallways. A turn takes them down a hallway where the walls more closely resemble the Hiddleston Estate – bullet holes sprinkling the woodwork. He flinches, checking his grip on Rose’s hand. If he lost her in here would he have to return to that memory? Of bullets whizzing by – bullets he now knew were meant for her?

Desperate to be free of the Hiddleston Estate hallways he snakes them haphazardly through doors that should hold offices but just hold more hallways. A blending occurs, one side of the hallway resembling that of the Crime Lord Estate, the other the home he just abandoned. 

The walls may shift and change but the flooring stays the same, no matter how far they trudge. Sludge. 

The clacking isn’t just a noise echoing behind them anymore. It is a _something_. It moves faster as they pick up their pace, snarls and knocks just at their backs. Otherwise it seemingly getting ahead of them, causing them to alter their course. 

This is a something tied to that last silver chord he’d brushed against. Something tied to Ben. What could it be but the bloodthirsty thing that Ben had nurtured? The thing grown from fear and shaped into something fearsome. It had fallen silent since Ben’s betrayal. Hearing Ben’s voice has set it off. Tom knows without a doubt what it wants. 

Revenge. It has been licking its wounds and now is out to try to settle the score for being cast out of power, cast aside as though it were nothing. 

There’s nothing here for it to rip apart, though. There’s nothing in these hallways but a gentleman, the woman he loves, and their child. 

The faster he tries to move the more the bog seems to cling to him. Rose is keeping pace, she and William being the only reason Tom keeps moving forward rather than stopping to face the thing hunting them. If he could figure out _where_ the damned thing was. If he could figure out where Rose and Will would be safe he would push them in that direction and lead the thing elsewhere. 

Onward they trudge, every movement of Tom’s limbs seems to further breakdown the buffer offered by the medication. He won’t last much longer – and then what?

A turn takes them down a hallway where they sink further, the muck nearly up to their shins. Wrong turn! But there is no time to backtrack. 

“This is a dream…” Tom mutters, still straining for forward progress. “Just a dream. Just a dream.”

“Perhaps, just a dream.” 

The reply stills Tom’s movements. 

“Perhaps _not_.” 

It isn’t Rose’s voice at his back. He turns to find Ben in her place. Tom releases Ben’s hand, the shock helping to uproot his right foot. The sudden absence of suction nearly makes him fall over backwards, the lurching motion momentarily blinds him before things fall back into focus.

Ben. Standing there holding William.

“Where is Rose?!” 

Ben stoops to put Will down, the mud immediately starting to work at the boy’s feet and coating the bottom edge of Will’s green shirt. “Not here. And neither is the boy. You _know_ that, Tom.” 

His mentor glares down his nose at him. Even in his head, Tom can’t satisfy Ben. 

Tom watches helplessly as Will sits down in the mud, not realizing the danger. It wouldn’t take long to suck him under. “Will! Come here!” The little boy doesn’t seem to hear him, splatting his hands in the mud a moment and then fading from view. 

_Not here. Not here. Neither of them are here. Were here. They’re safe. We’re all safe. This is just a dream. **This is just a dream!**_

But it doesn’t quite feel like a dream. The pain in his chest is real. The sweat coating his skin. The lingering haze of medication that isn’t quite doing its job. 

Ben reaches out and latches onto his arm, giving it a hard shake. “What are you going to do now, Tom? Now that you’re not atop the food chain?”  

Tom jerks himself free of Ben’s grasp, the action actually jolting him awake, a spasm of pain rocking through him. He squeezes his eyes shut, against the flashes of brilliant color and tries to keep from moaning, but still emits a strangled sound. 

The moment he feels the brush of skin against his wrist he jumps again. This time he can’t silence rumbled groan. He can’t help it. His fears have transferred into reality. 

But then soft words are spoken into his ear.

“Tom? Tom! Shhh. I’m here. I’m here.” 

He can feel the light pressure of her hands running over his arm, readjusting the blanket that had been covering him, touching his upper torso only where there aren’t bruises, a fluttering of her fingertips at his temple. He presses himself back to lie as rigid as possible, struggling to fully shake off the dream. Even though the forced tension of his muscles causes pain, it is something to drive the maddened look of his mentor out of his mind’s eye. 

“Rose?” He blinks his eyes open, checking to make sure it is his Rose by his side. Her clothes aren’t right. He shakes his head to try to jar the image loose. Rose wearing a jumper that he doesn’t recognize and faded jeans. 

Rose presses her hand over his, slipping her fingers beneath his when he fidgets. “Yes, Tom.”

Uncertain, he glances at the sofa cushions to find a smaller form now tucked under the blanket where he’d seen Rose sleeping earlier. Tom’s focus swerves again to find the wooden toys abandoned at the edge of the rug. How long has William been asleep? In the absence of that to explain the clattering noise… “I – William.”

Rose turns to look towards the corner now as well, just a quick glance before settling her attention on Tom once more. Her face is furrowed with worry. “He’s sleeping now. Do I need to call for Andrew?” 

She is reading his panic as pain. Well, the jerkiness of his motions is certainly contributing to his discomfort, but that is not going to be helped by doping him again. At least, not with whatever had been used the first time. “No! No.” He has a grip on her hand now, just like he did in the dream. He clenches his jaw against the urge to babble about mud and endless hallways and a web of silver strands.

_Just a dream. It **was** just a dream._

“Stop being stubborn. If the medicine is…”

“No, Rose. It’s not – that.” From his current vantage point he can’t see her feet. He struggles to twist without sending the blanket falling to the floor. It’s all that covers him – his dress shirt and trousers gone – but his mind is stuck on one track and one alone at the moment. He needs to reach the hand-rest at his hip to be able to lift himself to peer over the edge of the padded dental chair.

The muck from the bog had coated her lower legs up past her calves. If he can just prove to himself that she wasn’t there his heart might stop racing. 

She shakes her head, pressing her free hand gently at his collar bone to try to still him. “What are you doing? You need to rest. Please lay back.”

“I need to see your feet.” 

“My – feet?” Rose shifts to extend one leg out along her right side so that her shoe-clad foot comes into view. Still the old shoes that she had claimed along with their food. Her clothes and shoes are clean – mostly, just appearing well-worn. “You’re not making any sense. I’m getting Andrew.” 

He has her hand captured within his and has no intention of letting go. He keeps his eyes on her foot a moment longer before looking back up at her face, “Getting Andrew won’t help. That medicine. I need to be able to think, Rose. I can’t…” The mixture of pain and fear that has been brewing beneath the strong, self-assured façade is breaking through. What will she make of it? “I need to be in control of my own mind, at least. Not doubting my senses.” 

She stops pulling against his hold as soon as he admits it. Tom’s frankness has seemingly caused all thoughts of Andrew and a renewed dosage of medicine to disappear. “You’re in control, Tom. Just not as much as you’re used to.”

Understatement. He flutters his eyes shut, exhaling with a bit more force than necessary. Strands of silver flicker into view and he blinks his eyes open again quickly. Waking nightmares? **Fucking**. **Drugs** _._ There’s nothing more in the world that he wants than to have them out of his system. Except, maybe, a life wherein they hadn’t been needed in the first place. 

She grips his hand tighter as another tremor runs through him. She hesitates with her hand hovering a few centimeters from his now wrapped ribs before setting her hand over the top of their clasped ones. “What can I do? I’m here. Is there anything I can do to help?” 

“No,” Tom frowns as soon as he responds, then shakes his head as though it might erase his answer. “Yes. Talk to me. Don’t let me fall asleep.” 

From her expression it’s a request she probably won’t honor. She wants him to rest. She wants him to heal. She doesn’t understand that nightmares are waiting for him. Or maybe she does. The thin line of disapproval that her mouth had flattened into shifts. 

“Talk to _me_ , Tom. What is it?”

A thought is fighting to surface, trying to push through all the fuckery and be seen. Something urgent. It’s something that should be done – something time sensitive – but he can’t for the life of him think of _what_. It will come to him, eventually, but will it then be too late? 

Andrew has a stool stashed nearby, close enough that Rose can settle upon it so she is something closer to eye-level with him. “Why did you ask to see my feet?” 

Reticent, Tom hisses a breath through clenched teeth. “Talk to me about anything else. Where did Will find those toys?” Rose’s expression of concern flattens back into annoyance. Tom pushes further, trying to prompt her into talking about anything but his dreams, “Andrew? And the clothes as well?” 

Clothes. Is that the thought worming its way forward? In his peripheral vision he spots a folded pile of cloth, presumably clothing that had been set out for him to struggle into once he awakened. Yes. Yes it has something to do with clothes. 

“Yes. Ours were –“

She lifts her hand – Tom finding he misses the weight of it immediately – to motion to a pile of clothes on the floor just off to her left. He can only just make out the top item on the pile. His trousers. The moment he identifies the bloodied article of clothing the thought surges forward. A phone call that _must_ be made. He just needs to reach his trousers pocket, and the burner phone that lies within.


	38. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rose]

Rose knows that Tom has been drugged, but for the life of her she can’t quite make sense of his behavior.

She’d been awakened by the noises coming from him. In his sleep he’d muttered her name, and Ben’s. Slowly she’d crept over, trying to soothe him — he was still so pale, and a sheen of sweat covered his brow. His face was twisted into so many different emotions — fear, pain, desperation, shock, and then finally his hand tried to jerk away from hers as she attempted to hold it, and his eyes cracked open.

"I’m here," she assured him as his eyes gained their focus.

And then he’d wanted to see her feet. Her feet? Of all things? But he clung to her hand, those long fingers wrapped entirely around the wrist of her good hand, their grip the most solid thing about him, stronger than she might have expected in his current state.

But he won’t take any more drugs. His stubbornness is testing her limits of patience, as he clings to her and at the same time won’t answer her questions.

“Talk to me,” he asks instead. “Don’t let me fall asleep.”

“Talk to  _me_ , Tom. What is it?”

_How can I help you if you won’t let me in?_

And then she realizes he’s afraid. It took time for this knowledge to penetrate her brain, because she cannot ever once remember ever seeing Tom afraid. Sure, there had been days when he was anxious, and it was usually about Ben. But she’d never known exactly what, why or how — she could only speculate, and always suspected it was something about needing Ben’s approval. She had learned very early in their relationship that that particular wall was impenetrable. The wall between the rest of Tom’s world, and his relationship with Ben. It was something she’d had to accept if their relationship was going to continue.

But now she sees the fear. Raw and bleeding, it rises from him like a ghost, like the air he pants out of his lungs as he still struggles to calm his body. Her feet. He’d wanted to see her feet. Had been desperate for it.

She settles herself next to him on a nearby stool, realizing she needs to get ready for the long haul. “Why did you ask to see my feet?”

“Talk to me about anything else. Where did Will find those toys?”

Rose feels her shoulders slump. Even now? With his relationship with Ben in ruins, he  _still_  won’t let her in? She struggles against her own frustration, and Tom has to see it because he pushes the change in subject. “Andrew? And the clothes as well?”

"Yes, ours were—"

She raises her bandaged hand to point to where she’d kept Tom’s trousers, the only things not on his body, other than his pants, that were cut to ribbons.

"The phone," Tom suddenly croaks, much louder than before. His fingers tighten on her remaining hand, the other coming back slowly to return to its former position to rest on top of his.

"What about it?" she asks, hoping she doesn’t sound too patronizing. She feels like she’s using her "mommy" voice, when Will is having one of his temper tantrums, or near to it and she doesn’t want him set off.

"I need it."

Rose almost yanks her hand from his grip. Frustration spills over, the mommy mode slipping, and she just feels like she’s had enough. But he won’t let her go, and his thumb starts to move against her pulse in a massaging circle, a plea for understanding. It stills her.

Drawing a deep breath, she measures her voice so carefully before she lets it out. “Why do you need your phone, Tom?”

"Don’t you remember that the boys were bringing in Margaret and her family today?"

He’s now surprisingly clear. No wonder he didn’t want drugs. He’d said before about needing control of his mind — and Rose suddenly flushes with shock at realizing exactly what she’s forgotten.

"They were supposed to check them into a hotel," Tom goes on, his voice strained. "Keep an eye on them, wait for me to call them in, bring them to the estate. I’m sure by now one of them has started to suspect something is wrong, not being able to get ahold of me."

Rose doesn’t argue any more. She goes to the pile of stuff she’d collected from Tom’s pockets and pulls out the burner phone. It has no numbers in it, but she is sure that Tom knows how to get ahold of his men. Burners were a way of life, she realizes as she turns the small flip phone over in her hand. These days everyone had a smartphone — nobody really used the other kind anymore except for things like this. Tom’s personal phone was now a shattered mess, she was sure — destroyed to make sure he couldn’t use it to call for help if he even got his hands on it. But the burners, she knew he’d grabbed one from the safe. She’d used them herself to escape…

"Give me the number, let me dial," she says when she returns to Tom’s side. "I’ll put it on speaker, I don’t want you to strain your ribs holding anything up."

Surprisingly, Tom doesn’t argue. Normally he would never let her be privy to his phone conversations if it had anything to do with his operations as a Lord of Crime. But this is not just Tom dealing with his cronies — Margaret is involved, and Rose is utterly ashamed to have totally forgotten her, considering how much she truly owes that woman.

Will shifts in his little makeshift bed. Rose leaves Tom’s side and goes over to their son, and checks him. Still asleep, but a bit restless. She tucks the blanket around him tighter, trying to block out the noise. Then she returns to Tom, phone open, looking at him expectantly.

Tom gives her numbers, which she punches in. Within half a minute, there is a voice Rose recognizes. Ethan, she thinks.

"Hello?"

"It’s me," Tom says, his voice sounding completely normal, in spite of the ribs, the exhaustion, the stress of the situation. "Are Jacob and Paul with you?"

"Yes, Sir. Here, investigating the house." comes Ethan’s reply, heavy with anxiety. His accent, a rough North London, thicker under stress, makes it sound more like "Suurh." A slight delay, then, "The place is ripped to shreds. You…. Ok?"

Tom sighs, then winces. Rose bites her lower lip, wondering if she should speak up. Finally, unable to withstand the tension, she says, “Is Margaret with you?”

Tom glances at her, eyes sharpening. She tries not to worry too much about being rebuked later — things aren’t what they once were. And Ethan answers:

"Yeah, we brought her and her kids along. The uncle, too. They’re all here."

"There’ve been complications," Tom cuts in, his tone authoritative.  "Abandon the estate. There are particular locations in the house where you will find money and other supplies, if it hasn’t been raided yet. Destroy everything else. I won’t be returning. My last order to you is – when they come looking, when they ask – tell them I’m dead. Tell them you found the house empty, raided it, and didn’t look back. Make sure Jacob and Paul both get fair shares."

"Yes, Sir," Ethan says, his voice a bit hushed. It sounds like he’s trying to make sure he’s alone, the shuffling noises muffling all outside sound. "And what you want us to do with…with Margaret, and…"

"Did she bring the money?" Rose asks. She had given all that was left of her stash to the only friend she had, mostly to support Will but because Rose knew what was coming and knew she wouldn’t need it.

"Um, yeah, they’ve refused to let go of it, said they would only give it to…to you." Obviously Ethan knows who he’s talking to.

"If you would," Tom says, "please make sure they are returned to the States."

"Let me talk to Margaret," Rose says.

A shuffle comes over the phone, lowered voices, and then Margaret’s warm voice. “Hello?”

"Margaret, I’m so sorry," Rose says, and suddenly finds that she’s near tears. Tom’s hand envelops her free one, distracting her for a second from her words. Then, with a breath, she continues, "Please keep whatever is left of what I gave you—"

"Rosaline," the American accent is heavy with relief. "I’ve…I haven’t had to touch it."

"Take it, use it for whatever you like. I’m sorry…I’m so sorry. I owe you so much more than that, for all the things you did for me, I feel it’s poor payment."

"Oh, sweetie, I just want to know you and Will are both safe."

"We are." Rose glances at her son. "We’re here, we’re together, both of us safe. But…but we won’t see each other again, Margaret. Circumstances are different now."

"Is it what you told me before?" Margaret asks.

"Somewhat." She glances down at Tom. She’d told Margaret more than she’d ever confided in anyone else. But the way he’s looking up at her now, so tenderly, with so much concern for her pain, she wonders how she could have ever believed she was ever in any danger from him. "Things have changed, so much. I wish I could tell you, but…just know. Just trust me. Will loves you, and I love you."

"I love you too, Rosie. If you ever can, I’m sure you’ll find us."  

Ethan takes the phone back. Tom proceeds to give him several locations throughout the house, places Rose suspected over the years, a few she knew about. There’s roughly a few million stashed here and there, including jewelry, which Rose throws in, knowing in the two years she was gone Tom had never touched it.

She reaches up, touches the opals that still hang around her neck in a double strand, lying against her skin under the jumper. She had removed the dress but not them.

Tom says goodbye to Ethan. It rings with an air of something just less than authority. Neither Jacob nor Paul were present during the conversation, and don’t know that Tom is alive. Ethan will tell them the phone call was confirmation that Tom is dead. Ethan has been with him a long time and Tom trusted him, and that seems to have been the final cord to be cut.

Rose hangs up the phone, and looks at Tom’s face. He’s gazing out into space, his expression thoughtful, but somber. She starts to move away, but he holds her hand fast, pulling her back.

"I’m sorry," he says. "About Margaret. I know she did you a good turn—"

"Many good turns." Rose pauses, feeling a lump in her chest. It hits her like a cold, slapping wave, and she has a hard time breathing. "She…she saved me, Tom. From my own misery and poor judgment and she —"

Rose suddenly sees, in her mind’s eye, clearly, Margaret showing her things she needs to know. How to change a diaper. How to use a breast pump. How to use a washing machine, a dryer, a dishwasher. Rose could barely microwave her own dinners, but Margaret showed her how to use the stovetop and heat up soup and other kinds of food. Rose was rubbish when it came to cooking anything more complicated than crescent rolls from a can, but Margaret helped her, watched out for her, supported her, let her cry, let her rant when she needed it. Even though the woman was much older and expecting, and had a teenager to raise, she put herself out for Rose, out of the goodness of her heart. What has she put that woman through? Dragging her and her kin across an ocean and then…nothing? Leaving her to the tender mercies of Tom’s former henchmen?

Rose doubles over, the grief hard and sudden. Tom pulls her closer, and she rests her face in the crook of his neck and shoulder, one of the few unbruised places on his body. One hand smoothes her hair, and he whispers, “Shhh,” very softly into her ear. His other hand massages her lower arm, giving her a meaningful squeeze. “It will be all right, Rose. Ethan will make sure they get home. When we’re somewhere…private, maybe you’ll tell me. She is important to you, I can see it.”

Rose nods. She takes in a hard breath, sucking in her tears. She lifts her head, feeling ashamed for her sudden breakdown. The timing is so wrong, so very wrong. She shakes her head, trying to dismiss it, trying to gather herself. “You’re important to me, too,” she says, very softly. “I wish you would talk to me.”

Tom gazes at her for a very long moment, and she can see him considering his next words. Then his eyes drift toward the doorway. “Andrew is here.”

"He comes in and out." Her voice steadies, and she wipes away her tears, relieved to see that no more follow. "Nobody else has come. We’ve been alone."

"But he’s still listening. This is his home."

Of course. Tom can’t talk to her. Not with someone listening. Andrew may be adept at keeping secrets, but with something as vulnerable as dealing with this kind of emotional pain…Tom can barely open up to her as it is, let alone with other ears close by.

"Can you help me get up?" Tom asks. "Are there clothes?"

"Yes," Rose says, "but are you—"

"I need to get up, Rose," Tom says, his voice patient but strained. "We can’t stay here much longer. We need to move."

She nods, moves to open the swiveling arm and let him out of the chair. Gently, she slides her arm under his shoulders and uses her upper body strength to help lift him from the chair.

Tom bites back groans as he gets to his feet, but when he is steady, Rose holding to him closely to keep him from tipping, his stance straightens and he seems to breathe a little easier. The blanket that was covering him has slipped to his waist with the effort of rising, and Rose grasps it, pulling up over his shoulders to protect him from the cold.

"Thank you," he whispers against her cheek.

"Don’t thank me yet," she says mildly, "Thank me after you’re clothed. Although I think Andrew said something about —"

"About," Andrew says, interrupting them, and Rose is grateful she’s standing in front of Tom, shielding his partial nudity, from the flirtatious tone in the doctor’s voice, "that wrap around your ribs. Normally, you don’t ever wrap ribs. But I made an exception for you because I know you’re going to be hauling ass as soon as possible. Soon as you get to a stationary place, like a seat on a plane, or a boat, you take it off. Just cut it right off. Nothin’ fancy, ta?"

Tom nods, and then glances down. “Rose,” he whispers in her ear.

Rose looks in the direction he indicates. Will is sitting up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He is looking at his mother, and he does not look happy. “‘Ommy,” the boys whines.

"Hey little man, you hungry?" Andrew says. "Think I’ve got some strawberry poptarts around here. The boy like poptarts?" Andrew directs the question at her, and she nods.

"Especially strawberry," Rose says. "Will, strawberry poptarts!"

"Straw pops!" the boy echoes, instantly brightening.

"Thank you," Rose mouths at Andrew. Andrew just winks and disappears to retrieve what he’s promised.

Rose unfolds the jeans and scrunches them up so that Tom can step into both pant legs and she can pull them up. The jeans are loose on Tom’s lean legs, but it doesn’t matter because she saved his belt from his trousers. Slowly, she moves them up his legs, and Tom tries to wiggle to cooperate with her but she chastises him for hurting himself, as each shift makes him wince. The waist hangs, revealing the edge of his boxers, and Rose goes for the trousers, sliding the belt out of the loops. She quickly manages to get the belt through the jean’s denim loops, going around Tom rather than reaching around him, for better access.

Will watches all of this with a puzzled fascination that borders on cranky. Mommy has dressed him countless times, but this man is big, and should be able to dress himself.

First the pants, then the shirt. It’s long sleeved and thick, but not quite a jumper. More like a t-shirt, black with white lines going down the sleeves. She puts his arms through them, making him move as little as possible, and then slides the whole thing up to put the neck over his head and pull down the hem. It will be easy to reach up with a pair of clippers and cut off the wrap when the time comes.

The shoes are the final piece of the puzzle. Tom shuffles over to the exam table so he can lean while she puts the old trainers on his feet. They’re an amazingly good fit. She pulls the laces tight, and while she works, she feels Tom’s hand graze her hair.

"What about you?" he asks when she finishes and rises to her feet in front of him. He reaches out and his fingers brush her collar, where the other wound was. His other hand cradles her bandaged one.

"I’m fine," she says. "You cleaned me up pretty well. Andrew put in a few stitches to hold everything together, my hand was the deepest, but it feels fine. I just need anti-inflammatories to keep things from getting infected. The one here," she covers his hand with hers, points with his finger, "was actually pretty shallow. Tempest wasn’t…" She falters. "He was more show than anything."

Tom’s face grows flinty for a minute. Then, he pulls himself together. Just in time, too, as Will has gotten off the couch and stomped over to them, apparently having had enough of Mommy not giving him her exclusive attention. He grabs her leg protectively. “‘Ommy!” he snaps. “Straw pop!”

"Still fresh!" Andrew says as he returns. The crinkle of the silver wrap immediately distracts the toddler and he attacks the offered treat. "So… getting ready to ship out?"

Rose looks down, nods. “Yes, Andrew,” Tom says, idly caressing Rose’s arm. “Thank you for letting us stay this long.”

"Not a problem, pal," Andrew says. "I’ll put you together a to-go baggie for the trip."


	39. Listen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

Comforting Rose. That’s something he can do – try to do. It might not be something he is well practiced at, not anymore, but it is something other than attempting to address and express his fears to her. He is used to burying them, not peeling away the layers for the inspection of others.

Not to mention the fact that the walls have ears. And then there’s William to consider. He refuses to traumatize the boy any further, if he can help it. Who knows what little snippets of conversation might linger within the recesses of Will’s mind, only to resurface in the years to come. They’re already going to have to keep a close eye on him.

They – as a family – if Rose is willing to have him… willing to keep this former Lord of Crime. She asked him on the boat, earlier, what his intentions were. She doubted him still? She doubted his ability to push the life aside, to forego his upbringing, to ignore the call for revenge.

For her? For William?

How can he make that plain to her, since his actions alone have not proven the point?

When they are alone. When he no longer has to worry about Andrew tucking the nuggets of information away. Andrew – whose instructions were clear – find a stationary somewhere and remove the wrapping that currently seems to be holding him together. Breathing is manageable again without feeling as short of breath. Why would he want to regress, again? Leaving the bandage in place is unlikely – Rose will ensure that the Doc’s instructions are followed to the letter.

Every interaction between himself and Rose is closely monitored by a pair of bright blue eyes fringed by blonde curls. The little man of the house is unused to sharing the attentions of his mother. He’s also impatient at the slow progress of the procession, a few hours of sleep and a snack of something coated in sugar and William is now very ready to be in motion.

“’Ommy!” Will tugs at his mother’s hand, trying to attract her attention, trying to pull her towards the thing he wants to inspect. He is still enamored with the newness of Andrew’s place, the old stones of the lighthouse and keeper’s quarters, the green of the grass, the sounds of the shoreline. He seems to want to explore versus head towards the waiting car.

Will may not understand the need for all the travel but he knows what the car means: more sitting in confined quarters.

Rose won’t release her hold around Tom’s torso. She’s under his shoulder, trying to steady him as gently as she can in their progress towards the waiting vehicle. Tom murmurs to her, noting Will’s insistent pointing towards a group of birds. “Rose, he wants to show you the divers. Walk with him.”

Allowing Will to expel some of his energy will also provide Tom some time to settle into the driver’s seat. And recuperate from the short walk from building to vehicle.

The look Rose gives him tells him she’ll do no such thing. Andrew, walking along with them to monitor his patient and fulfill his temporary contract as physician, gives them a nod, “I’ll ooooh and aaaah over the divers. Search out a few precious stones for his mum, if there’re no objections?”

Tom waits for a nod from Rose before agreeing along with her with a short nod to Andrew. Allowing the doctor further time alone with members of his family makes Tom … decidedly uncomfortable. Trust, that’s an aspect of his life he is going to need to work on. Trusting others.

Rose is with him step for step, though her attention has turned to monitor William. Andrew is hunched slightly, listening as Will points out the grey and black birds in broken chatter. Tom can’t think of what to say that might make those slight frown lines between her brows to disappear. Still, he tries, “I may not like his manner, but William has taken to him.”

Where William has shown hesitation in regards to Tom, the little boy immediately fell into an easy exchange with the good doctor. Children have an uncanny knack for sensing what lay beneath the surface. While Andrew may agree to be utilized by men such as Tom, the rules he makes them agree to make one thing very clear:  _I will help you, but on my terms._

“Andrew is more like you – he likes to take care of the less fortunate. Runs a clinic here – when he isn’t otherwise occupied.”  _Occupied with men like me –_  the unspoken implication. Offering up conversation and focusing on not slipping on the path causes odd starts and stops to his words. “Did you – talk about that at all?”

“No.” Rose is back to monitoring his progress, alternating between watching their feet and gauging the distance to the car. “While he focused on the damage to your face, and your ribs – we talked about you.”

The news isn’t all that surprising. It is why he had tried his hardest to keep from discussing anything of import while they were on the premises – the phone-call with Ethan notwithstanding. Andrew’s policy of paid neutrality has held thus far, but – but Rose would have been careful. Still, he frowns, “Me.”

“Tom you were the Crime Lord  _of_   _London_. You contacted him using backchannels in the middle of the night. Came to him almost unable to stand. Andrew knew something big was happening before asking the first question.”

“Rose that’s not—” He’ll need to backpedal – or at least change the track of the conversation – after she’s spoken her piece. She adjusts her hold on his torso. Even through the dullness of the medication and wrapping he can feel her, and takes comfort in the fact she hasn’t released him yet. They are almost to the pavement now, almost to a point where he can hold the frame of the car and stand there to listen to her scold him. Or maybe sit – Doctor’s orders, after all.  _Find somewhere stationary_.

“Andrew needed to know what had been done to you… what I saw done to you, so he could help. That’s all we discussed.”

Tom grinds his teeth, talking over her insistent words. “Rose, I’m  _not_  questioning you.”

Rose falls silent and then the both of them are frowning. It is the wrong track to venture down. They need to be united right now – focused on the task at hand – fleeing. They don’t have time for doubts and explanations. But this is the first time they’ve been alone together, without fear of eavesdroppers or little eyes and ears absorbing details they shouldn’t.

The smooth surface of the pavement allows him to focus less on his footing and more on his words. And then they reach the car. When he turns to rest against the unforgiving metal he searched out the two figures walking along the beach – Andrew’s yellow slicker attracting his attention first, then the little green-clad being crouched down examining a creature, or some other fascinating discovery.

He takes a breath and repeats himself, moving his attention from William back to Rose. “I wasn’t questioning you. I’ve never doubted your ability to play things close to the vest. But the good doctor collects  _details_. He’ll tell you three things, two truths and a lie and wait for you to correct it. Disguise it as conversation… That’s how Andrew is dangerous. That’s why I was hoping the topic was something less sensitive.”

Rose gives him a look that makes him snort out a chuckle and then wince at the resulting complaint of his ribs. He lifts his right hand to press against the bandages covering his sternum. “The fewer people that know the details of where we’ve been and where we’re going, the easier it will be for the three of us to vanish. There’s no point to our running if someone comes for us, right on our heels.”

His words strike a chord in her. He can see it – the way she responds to him finally letting her in on the plan, letting her in on the goings on in his head. Tom drifts his attention from her to once more find William playing on the beach, allowing enough time for Rose to do the same. It has the effect he wants.

“All three of us.” She whispers.

She’s still worried that he’ll leave them after he has them settled somewhere he deems safe? Worried, perhaps that he’ll fall back into his old habits – that he’ll turn about and attempt something stupid in the name of achieving something akin to an-eye-for-an-eye. What revenge is there to be had, and what point would it serve? Ben is – Ben is Mark’s problem. Already handled, more than likely.

And then there’s Tempest. Tom would like nothing more than to take a bite out of Tempest. But, again, what point would it serve? He would lose his chance, this second chance he was afforded, for the thing he’s wanted all along. Family.

A family with Rose – he wanted so badly to be with her from the moment he met her, but he didn’t know how to be both the man she loved  _and_  a Lord of Crime. Having Ben constantly whispering in his ear had made matters worse – but now?

Now the answer is simpler. Is it simpler? Is it an answer? Is it an answer she wants to hear?

He’s made his choice. Made it the very day he met her. He’d do anything for her, anything for her happiness. He let her leave, condemning himself to the darkness. He maintained her legacy to ensure her good works continued in her absence, not that his supervision had ever been required. He is willing to forsake all that he’s worked towards, all the power he’s amassed through years – years of watching his morals shift into a pattern fashioned by Kingsley.

He is walking away from everything in life he’s ever known – just for her. Just for her. And he’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

“Yes, Rose. All three of us.”

Her continued defensiveness, her continued disbelief, is yet another fault he can shoulder. That she needed verbal confirmation after his actions should have made it abundantly clear… But then his actions have always been sullied by the man he was, by the Crime Lord led around by his puppet master.

To ask this of her – to allow him to stay and be present in their lives – perhaps isn’t something he deserves. He has only brought them pain. He has only ever brought pain upon those he loves, though he always started with good intentions. His family, the memory no longer striking such a heavy blow, was already in ruin, was dead because of him. He’d nearly caused the moment to repeat itself in respect to Rose and William, even while actively trying to prevent such a thing from happening.

Rose is watching him closely, providing a long silence for him to fill, when he chooses to speak again. She’s spoken her piece and now it is his turn. She told him, demanded it of him:

_You need to tell me, in no uncertain terms._

“I can’t promise you it will be easy with me, Rose.” He jams his hands into his pockets, his mind racing, lurching about with fevered intent and the lingering haze of medication. It’s so close he can taste it, the dream he’s kept hidden away all these years.

The dream that had started with the beautiful woman that was currently standing transfixed before him. She had stared back at him in that crowded room and didn’t see the money making rake. She didn’t see the criminal. She didn’t see the Crime Lord in training. She saw the romantic, the lover of Shakespeare – the man held within, and to his immense surprise, had fallen in love. She loved him despite the numerous flaws, despite all the bad that Ben had nurtured.

Which had only served to amplify the betrayal that had rocked him when she left.

Ben had been there, watching it all. It’s a wonder the old wolf had bothered to pluck Tom from the bottle, shoving him back towards his duties. But then Ben had merely been acting to protect his investment – and then, when it became clear that Tom would never recover, that his protégée would forever be lost to the cause until  **the flower problem**  was dealt with.

Tom feels the thing within him growl and try to bare its teeth in conjunction with the swell of anger he feels regarding his ex-mentor. He has more control now, in the light of day, but he’ll need help to figure out a healthier way to manage his anger. His long battle with self-worth pales in comparison to this new wound that will surely plague him – the severed connection with Ben Kingsley. Ben, the man who had raised him. This second father who had turned against him, tried to destroy him and everything he loved – perhaps did destroy him, considering his internal landscape at the moment.

But he had survived. Rose had survived – and William. And the thing within… if only just.

“It - it won’t be easy. Not that it ever has been. But I love you, Rose. I love you and I want to try to be a man deserving of your love. Deserving of you, and William. What you said before, on the boat…” He pulls one of his hands from his pockets and reaches out to almost grasp her shoulder, then rescinds the motion, “And just now… I trust you, Rose. I do – though I’m not always capable of showing it. My actions in the past… I’ve been so determined to shield you from the darkness in me that I shut you out. Projected a lack of faith in you. Convinced you that I didn’t need you. But I  _do_ , Rose. I need you. I always have.”

He reaches out again, this time managing to make contact. As he brushes his knuckles over her jawline she tilts her head to follow the motion. Before he can pull away again she reaches up to grab hold of his hand, intertwining her fingers with his.

_I won’t leave you again. But if you change your mind, and you go the way of revenge…_

She had asked it of him, as they were seated there in the tiny room on the swaying ship, a sharp shake of her head signaling that she wouldn’t stand by him if he chose a path of violence. She would stay with him unless he made the choice to try to return to the criminal network, or tried to strike back at any and all involved in the mess they have faced these past few days. She’s leaving it up to him. Letting him be the one to strike the fatal blow to his heart, if he so chooses.

He would not survive – not for long – that much he knows. If she turned him away? He would have nowhere to go. He can’t return to the Estate. After dealing with Ben and assuming his power, Mark would not take kindly to Tom’s return. He would view it as a threat, no matter what assurances were made. Even assuming an unsteady truce were drawn, the two men would never be able to cooperate with one another without the watchful eye of Kingsley to keep them in line. They would be at each other’s throats until one man fell.

Tom flexes the fingers of his left hand in his pocket, feeling the few remaining bits and bobs shift against his skin within the fabric enclosure. A few coins – and the ring he’d purchased for her before everything had gone sideways. It isn’t opportune, certainly not how he planned it out in his head, but it is perhaps the grand gesture that will allow her to understand just how committed he is to seeing this through.

He keeps her hand held firmly within his while also bracing himself on the frame of the car. She knows perfectly well what he’s up to but still voices the query over his attempt at stifling his groans: “Tom, what are you doing? Get up. You’re in no condition…”

He lifts his eyebrows a fraction. Now that he’s down on one knee he won’t be getting up without asking – nor before receiving an answer.

“Rosaline Annabel Tanner Halliday, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

She seems caught between joy and irritation. “Tom, get up. You pick the most inopportune times to become overwhelmingly romantic.”

“Answer me, and I will.”

“Get up, and I’ll give you an answer.” She sighs and shakes her head – looking away and then back at him again before giving his hand a squeeze. “Tom we need time to get to know one another again. For you to heal, for all of us to deal with what has happened. Now is not the time to march off to the registrar’s office… But of course. Yes. Will that do? When we’re not running for our lives? Will you get up now?”

Tom nods, groaning again as she helps him to his feet once more. “I’d stop at the first one we found, if you’d let me. But yes.”

Rose is smiling at him now, reaching out to brush her hands over his shoulders, careful to avoid any tender areas, “We need time to learn to be together again. But – this is what you want.”

“Yes.” In spite of their surroundings, their current circumstance, the knowledge of that fact is making her beam with such intensity he wishes he could sweep her into his arms, as he had in the wine cellar of the Hiddleston Estate.

She moves one hand from his shoulder, reaching up to trace her right index finger along the seam of his mouth. It seems her thoughts are running along a similar line. “I will do what I can to make this work. But you need to as well. You  _have_  to talk to me, Tom.  I see so many things pass behind those eyes that never reach your lips.”

He sighs at her touch, taking a step towards her, listening intently to her words. Memorizing every detail of this moment.

“I want to know you completely. Not just the things you think I’ll approve of. Whatever it is, whatever you might fear I’ll shun you for, I won’t. I promise you that.” She traces her fingers back along his jaw, around the side of his neck and into the fringe of hair at the base of his skull. “You say you trust me. Then trust me with all of you.”

Ribs be damned, he reaches one arm around her waist and presses against her back, closing the small distance left between them as he uses his other hand to tilt her jaw upward. She tiptoes up, doing her best not to teeter into his bandaged torso, but he isn’t focused on that. He just wants to feel the glorious curve of those lips against his own.

Words are all well and good, but this is the best way he knows how to express himself in this moment.


	40. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rose]

 

** **

**_**Fourteen months later**_ **

Lying on her back, Rose holds the ring above her head. The ambient light in the room, even at three in the morning, makes the opal’s veins of color shimmer. The diamonds on either side twinkle like stars. Sometimes she stares at it and wonders what Tom was thinking. Sometimes she tears up, thinking of how he’d kept it, out of hope? Fear? Self-loathing? It’s something she hasn’t asked him, although he’s told her much more than he ever did before, and might even tell her this if she asked. She doesn’t bring it up because most of the time she’s done dwelling on the past.

But tonight she’s felt squirmy, itchy in her own skin. She usually sleeps very well. Tom and Will both had struggled with sleep those first six months, and nightmares for some while after. She never did – she considers that this is because she suffered so much the first time she’d gone to hide. She’d felt so alone…but she’s not alone this time. Far from it.

Beside her, Tom stirs. Usually when she’s awake, he’s awake too – it’s some kind of sensor in him, it’s like he knows. She stays still, trying not to disturb him, but even so, he rolls over and one arm slides around her midsection, his face pressing into her shoulder. His eyes flutter open briefly, and Rose closes hers – if he sees she’s awake he’ll ask her what’s wrong. And then he’ll be awake. Which she doesn’t want.

Yet.

She feels him shift, adjust, tighten his hold briefly and then relax, back into the Sandman’s world. When she’s sure his breathing had steadied she opens her eyes again.

He’s still so beautiful. His hair is lighter, there are more curls on top of his head, and his face has fewer lines. He smiles more, his shoulders are rarely so rigid, in spite of the fact that she knows he worries. Always in the back of his mind, he worries. He plans, he anticipates. That much about him will never change.

She is grateful.

The first six months had been the hardest. In those she’d kept to sleeping with her son, soothing him through most of the night, listening to Tom pace the floorboards when he couldn’t sleep. Sometimes he would pop his head into their room, kiss Rose gently, rub Will’s back, slip out again to rest for a few hours and then he’d be at it again. Pacing, restless. Waiting for what he was sure to come.

When they started to share a bed, after this ring had been put on her finger in a very small ceremony – where she’d worn a beautiful embroidered dress that skimmed her knees and bared her arms, something she could use for other occasions if they should ever arise as money was now to be rather carefully guarded – it had been temporarily worse. Will was not used to not having Mommy beside him if he awoke. Many times she wound up going to comfort him and not returning. Occasionally Tom had carried her back to their bed, unable to be without her, especially if Will was back into a sound dreamland. But by then Will was adjusting – to Tom, to their home, to their life together. His nightmares evened out, only occasionally appearing at their bedside for his mother. And Tom insisted Will crawl into their bed instead of her leaving. After an initial rebellion, Will now even curled into his father, every once in a while.

Now, at three years old, Will’s height is considerable – he seems at least as tall as a five year old. He already takes after his father in features – sharp cheekbones, dazzling blue eyes, and now a long, lean frame. He’d been 21 inches when he was born, one of the longest babies the nurses had ever seen. But now that he was older it was really starting to show.

It hadn’t been easy, Tom and Will adjusting to each other. Tom, of course, adored Will from the start, but Will was unsure of his father, and suffering from the trauma of their reunion had stacked the odds against him. But Tom was nothing if not persistent – although it was a struggle for him not to retreat for a time. Tom had dealt with his frustration with her in the same way, she realized, right before she left him. Retreat, and regroup.

Now, they were very nearly an ideal family.

A twitch in her abdomen makes Rose give a bit of a start. She’s felt it for about a week, but nothing strong enough for anyone to feel from the outside. Will had started kicking sooner and she had just begun to worry. But the second child was never quite the same as the first.

Rose was just waiting for little Hero to kick hard enough so Daddy could feel it. Maybe tonight–?

The flutter stops. Rose relaxes, rubbing her belly. It will come when it comes, not a minute sooner. She’s learned patience.

Tom’s fingers tighten against her hip. “What’s wrong?” he whispers into her shoulder.

“Nothing, Tom,” she replies, lifting her hand to rub his arm.

“Is this normal?” he asks. “You’ve been waking up in the middle of the night a lot this last month. Is it about the baby?”

Rose gives a little shrug. The movement makes another flutter go off in her belly – this one much harder. She moves her hand to track it, pressing to see if she can feel it. No, not quite…“Hero’s getting stronger. No, everything is fine, Tom.” She can feel him tensing up.

“Do you need anything?” Silly question. If she’d needed something she’d have woken him up long before now. Poor man has endured her mood swings like she never imagined he could. But tonight she’s feeling rather sane.

She smiles. “No, darling. It’s normal. I was awake a lot with Will. But that was probably…” She trails off, realizing she shouldn’t finish that sentence.  _For other reasons_ , she thinks. Reasons she no longer has.

Tom knows. His nose brushes against her jaw. “It’s okay. You can tell me.”

How often had she said those words to him? She’d been an utter hypocrite not to respond in kind. But she hates remembering those days. She hates making him think of them, even more.

“It was hard then,” she says softly. “It’s not now. Not at all.”

A jerk. Her hand is a mere inch away from where she feels the little foot give a sound thunk against her insides. She gives a gasp, reaches for Tom’s hand. “There, Tom, quick!’

"What?” He’s on his elbow to position himself above her, alarmed. But she’s smiling.

“She’s kicking,” Rose laughs. Another bump, another ripple in her skin. Rose barely gets Tom’s fingers in the right place. “Right there. Oh, I hope she does it again!”

Tom’s jaw starts to drop, amazement making his eyes shine, even in the darkness of their bedroom. “Is that…”

She holds her breath. Waiting.  _Come on, baby girl, kick again. Let Daddy feel you._

A prayer is answered. Hero kicks again, right into Tom’s fingers. He jumps, making the whole bed shudder. “Oh my God,” he whispers. “There she is.”

She’s seen him smile much more in this last year plus change. But smiles this radiant are rare. It’s just pure joy, pushing away the years, the pain, the effort and strain he endures each day to shield them from the past. He looks at her, his blue eyes sparkling like a little boy at Christmas.

“I mean, I knew,” he stumbles. “But…feeling her. What…” his brow furrows, but the smile doesn’t disappear, “what does it feel like from inside?”

“Sometimes like gas,” she teases with a giggle.

Tom gives a little growl, then bends to kiss her, holding her lips against his for a pronounced pause. “Naughty,” he chastises.

“Well, like bubbles, mostly,” she explains, still giggling. “They’re going to get stronger. Mommy is going to feel like a punching bag by the time she’s out.”

“Oh, my poor sweetheart,” Tom says, massaging the area with his fingers, but Rose knows he’s waiting for Hero to do it again.

“I’m glad you’re sympathetic,” Rose says with an arched brow. “Because I can already tell you I’ll need more tummy rubs.”

Tom gives a grunt, a smile still evident. “I’ll think about it.” Truth is his hands are barely five inches from her in the course of a normal day. Either he’s rubbing her back or her feet, kissing her fingers, kissing her cheek or just kissing her full stop. Will’s jealousy threatens to reappear at times with how much Daddy keeps touching Mommy.

She strokes his cheek, and the mood softens between them. “You do so much,” she whispers.

He shakes his head. “I’m just making up for lost time.” He kisses her again, his hand still at that place, but apparently Hero has worn herself out. “Will you please sleep? I don’t want you to tire yourself out so quickly during the day.”

Rose wants to tell him that it’s an impossible request – of course she’s going to get tired. She’s carrying around another human being and it’s not like she can just put the baby down and rest. But she doesn’t – she knows Tom’s fiercely protective nature and knows better than to counter it.

“I’ll try,” she says. He smiles against her cheek.

“Any way I can help?”

She bites back a snort. “I know how you’d  _help._  That’s how I got into this mess.”

“Well, at least we wouldn’t have to worry.”

“And you’re taking full advantage of  _not worrying_.”

Tom squeezes her against him. “Please. Like you’ve been able to keep your hands off me these last five or so months.  _I’m_  the one who’s being treated like a punching bag.”

“Only because you’re so irresistible, darling.” The mood swing comes hard, she doesn’t expect it. One moment bickering, the other wanting him so badly she swears she has the strength to flip him over and crawl on top. Luckily Tom is pliant enough to take it.

Would it have been like this, she wonders, if she’d stayed with him while she carried Will? In her darker moments she tries to picture it. Wonders if pregnancy hormones would have made her crawl back into his bed, in spite of her anger, in spite of her revulsion. Or rather, if they would have made her desperate enough to break from him openly, defy him to his face. She wonders if Tom would have been this giving, this attentive, this patient. This happy. If he would have tried everything he could to please her because she carried his child. If maybe he would have considered her desires for him to give up his criminal life, desires she’d never admitted to anyone, including herself. If he would have wanted his son to follow in his footsteps, or if he would have done everything in his power to shield Will from it, as he had her.

But there is little use in wondering. Tom is here with her, warm and real. That life is far away from them. Tom has sacrificed it to save her, save her and Will. And although she knows, one day, there will be a price to pay for this life, this isn’t the day she has to pay it.

At least not today.

**Author's Note:**

> This was just a piece written to entertain a friend - that now has developed into a fic that we write together, alternating chapters.


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